


Between the Ice and the Sky

by Madara_Nycteris, sirsable



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Art, But the boat kind, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, Conspiracy, Fantasy Violence, Hydra (Marvel), Inspired by Art, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Probably improper use of nautical terms, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Temporary Character Death, White Wolf - Freeform, rbb2018, ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-27 21:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15033485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madara_Nycteris/pseuds/Madara_Nycteris, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirsable/pseuds/sirsable
Summary: A world covered in ice, blanketed in a magic darkness to keep its people safe. A prophecy that predicts the end of their lives as they know it. A group of people dedicated to making sure that prophecy comes true no matter what the cost—and those who oppose them. A boy who is also a wolf, and the boy who will give everything to stay by his side. This is a story about love lost and found; power taken and given; trust broken and gained.-Written for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, based on and featuring art by the talented Madara_Nycteris!





	1. In the Beginning (Prologue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first-ever Bang, and I'm so grateful to have worked with [Madara_Nycteris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madara_Nycteris/pseuds/Madara_Nycteris). Thank you so much for your trust and, of course, the beautiful and inspiring artwork! I can only hope I've done it justice.
> 
> Also a huge thank you to [Squeaky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky). Without you, this would still be a heaping wreckage and I'd probably be crying in a dark corner somewhere. You're the best, eh?  
> -  
> This is not my usual kind of thing, but I thought the art deserved taking a risk. Up until now I've only written one-shots, so this endeavor has been a learning experience. I hope the result isn't too terrible. If it is, I take full blame. My beta can only fix so much. x_x

The world they live in is dark—it always has been and it always will be. The sun is a danger here, where only cold separates man from the monster that would consume him.

The Serpent, they call it. That’s it. There is no need to elaborate, because there is only one serpent important enough to warrant such dread: _The Serpent._

The Serpent is terrible and vast. Its size is surpassed only by its appetite, which is enough to eat all of humanity and still have room for more. A glutton of flesh and blood and death and destruction. There will be no satisfaction for the beast, even as the world bathes in blood.

But man is resourceful. An individual might be weak, but with many comes might. Long ago, so many ages past that it is almost legend instead of legacy, all the people of all the nations united and made a decision: Man could not live this way, always running from the Serpent, cowering in fear of its next attack, waiting to be its next meal. For their sakes and the sake of all their descendants, they had to make a stand. The shamans bent their minds to it and could find only one solution: To cage the Serpent, they would have to freeze the world and lock away the sun. The only drug that could subdue it was the cold of the arctic north, and the Serpent never ventured there. So, the ice would be its prison and the cold its tamer, and the shamans would weave a spell-net above the sky to ensure that the cage would never thaw, and the beast never leave. They called it the Shroud, and it dulled all the world to a perpetual twilight glow.

To be certain, they linked a golden chain around the Serpent’s neck, using its own life-force to help fuel the Shroud that kept it trapped. The shamans remain vigilant, traveling with members of their tribes together in their massive ice-ships as they circle the world endlessly to maintain the Shroud both together and apart. They will not let it fail. They _cannot_ let it fail. But such a thing cannot last forever, and a prophecy has been uttered:

 

From the North and West | come the Serpent,  
And North and South | fall the Shroud.  
Hither comes the ranks of Man | with magic and steel  
To find the pale wolf | free the beast of its chains.

Many heads make many mouths | each in venom ringed  
The battle is sounded | in screams and spells  
Silver shielded warrior | attacks in hail of flame  
When finally stilled the field | the world in gold begun anew.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit on the story is welcomed so long as it's gentle. We both love kudos, comments, and questions, so please leave them if you feel so inclined! Even a single word or emoji will be treasured like the precious that it is.
> 
> Feel free to ask me stuff on Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/). I ended up with a bunch of worldbuilding and background that didn't belong or fit in the fic, so hit me up if you want boring details and headcanons.
> 
> Go stare in wonder at [@madara-nycteris](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com/), whose attention to detail is nothing short of amazing.


	2. The Boy and the Wolf

“YEAH, RUN AWAY!” the boy shouted.

Steve scowls up at the bigger boy standing defensively over him and struggles to get up. A hand is offered, but he bats it away angrily.

“I don’t need nobody saving me!” Steve snarls.

“Wow. You’re welcome.” The other boy watches Steve struggle for a few moments before sighing and heaving him onto his feet by his collar. “M’ Bucky. With the _Shield_ , over there.” He points to the ice-ship looming not far from them. “Who’re you?”

The silence goes on so long that Bucky thinks the boy isn’t going to answer. Finally, though, the smaller boy holds out a grudging hand. “Steve. Rogers. M’ ma’s an herb-healer.” His expression cracks a little. “Was. Ma _was_ an herb-healer, not… not what those kids were callin’ her. Just because my pa wasn’t around.”

“I never said she was,” Bucky says quietly.

“Well… she wasn’t.”

Bucky slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders, uncaring of the dirty slush dripping off the other boy. When he’s not shoved off right away, he relaxes a little. Not as prickly as he pretends, then, but still hurting. Steve must be here to change to the _Shield_ —it’s one of the ships that holds clan orphans if they can’t be given to one of the stationary cities. “I know a lady we can beg fried dough off of, if you’re game. You got big eyes, and she’s a sucker for that. Wanna try?”

Steve hesitates, looking between the single, large pack at his feet, to the _Shield_ , and back to Bucky.

“We can give it to one of the dorm keepers,” Bucky offers. “They’re nice here, and anyway it’s bad luck to touch a new kid’s things before they unpack properly.”

“I never heard that,” Steve says suspiciously.

“It’s what they say.” Bucky shrugs. “No one will touch your bag, or else they’re askin’ for more bad luck than they already got.”

He waits for Steve’s reluctant nod before smiling brightly. “All right then. Welcome to the _Shield_.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“You sick again?” Bucky leans over his friend’s bunk and looks at him upside-down. Steve is sick so often that their minders only drop in every two hours or so unless he looks like he’s getting worse. Since none of the adults are here right now, Bucky’s not too worried. Steve looks a little flushed, but he’s not shaking or pale, so he must be okay.

“No,” Steve sulks. “They’re just bein’ safe.” He resists the urge to sniffle, but Bucky sees right through him and hands over a handkerchief. Steve glares but takes it all the same.

“S’okay. Hey, you want me to tell you one of those stories? About the flying ships and the cloud-trees?”

“You don’t hafta stay here with me. M’ probably just gonna sleep, and they’re clearing the snow today. You get picked first for ball every time; you should go.”

“Nah, playing stickball is dumb anyway; I’m gettin’ bored with it.” Bucky is an active boy, vibrating with energy even now. But he pulls up a chest and sits on his hands to try and keep from wiggling. “Here, have some water. I’d rather come up with stories today.”

*

“I had ‘im on the ropes,” Steve pants, wiping blood from his mouth with one sleeve.

“I know. Right over the railing. Maybe I was tryin’a save Rumlow; you ever think of that?” Bucky works Steve’s arm over his shoulder and helps the other boy limp to a corner where they can sit out of the wind. “Lemme see.”

Steve grins at him over his split lip. “Got a few good hits in this time, though.”

“You’re ridiculous, Rogers. Look, you broke your face again.”

Steve lets Bucky fuss at him a little more before he reaches up to cover Bucky’s hand with his own. “Thanks, Buck,” he murmurs. Bucky’s gaze softens.

“’Course, Stevie. We’re in it together, right?”

Steve has the mad impulse to press a kiss to Bucky’s palm, but instead he just licks it and laughs loudly when Bucky springs away with a disgusted cry.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
All the tiny signs coalesce so quickly in Steve’s brain that it’s as though the idea springs fully-formed from nothing. The blackouts Bucky’s been complaining of, the blood, the exhaustion. The first time Bucky had woken him in the middle of the night, mud and blood running down his face in sticky rivulets, Steve had been terrified. It must have shown in his eyes, because Bucky had recoiled, muttering frantically, _“This was a mistake. You just smelled so safe; felt safe; I—”_ And Steve had taken the older boy by the shoulders and shaken him firmly. _“I’m not afraid_ of _you; I’m afraid_ for _you, Buck. I could never be afraid of you—you’re my best friend.”_

But this time is different, because Bucky’s gone missing just before the _Shield_ plans to pick up anchor, and he doesn’t know what will happen if they can’t find him. There have been reports of large predators in the area, and their ice-ship isn’t precisely equipped to handle a problem like that —instead, a hunting party from another ship is racing to their location, hoping to drive the predators off into less inhabited lands. In the meantime, the _Shield_ needs to move to a safer location, so anyone old enough to help is running tasks to prepare the ship for launch much sooner than anticipated. Steve is old enough to break down one of the outer camps, and he’s on the last run before he’ll re-board the _Shield_ when he hears it.

He sheds the thicker mitten that would undermine his grip before sliding a knife into his hand, and looks around warily. Something definitely moved out there, and he’s fairly confident it’s not another person.

“Is someone out there? I’m just finishing with this camp,” he calls. Waits. Tries again. “This isn’t time for games. Captain wants to be moving in less than an hour.”

Still no reply. He slowly drops the baskets he’d been collecting on the ground and considers how far he might have to run to get help.

There’s a flash of frigid blue and a heavy weight slams into Steve’s chest, thick nails dig through his furs into his shoulders and pin him to the hard, unforgiving ice. Sweet, meaty breath rises in plumes around Steve’s face, the fog twice as impenetrable with the ringing in his ears and the sharp pain in his head from the fall.

He can feel blood trickle from the back of his skull, almost burning hot in contrast to the cold around him, hotter even than the breath of the beast atop him. This close, he can see the beast’s eyes—a wolf, he thinks, larger than a full-grown man and white as the snow. But the eyes catch him. So familiar a frozen, icy blue, and almost… human. He’s pretty sure it’s not in his best interest to stare down a predator, but he can’t tear away his gaze, either. He sees its nostrils flare, taking in his scent, and suddenly the heavy pressure on his chest is gone and the wolf is bounding away. But it moves oddly, not fluidly like it had mere moments ago; short and sharp now, swaying a little as though dazed. Steve can barely still see it when he sees the great beast collapses in a cloud of powdery snow. He’s up and running, grabbing the lantern he’d let fall before his brain kicks in to tell him what a terrible idea this is.

In the middle of a small crater carved of the soft snow crouches Bucky, wet and shivering, brown-red blood drying through cuts in the arms of his coat. His inner one, Steve notices. The heavier fur one might have protected him from that kind of damage, but it’s nowhere to be found. Bucky’s not all there, moaning wretchedly and staring blankly at his gore-covered hands.

“Stevie, what’s going on? What did I do? Oh, gods, why is there so much blood?!” His voice climbs, hysterical in pitch, until Steve does something that he rarely gives in to: he grips Bucky’s shoulders and shakes as hard as he can. He can hear Bucky’s teeth rattle in his head. Then Steve is hugging him close, Bucky’s face hidden in the shoulder of Steve’s coat, and then he’s gripping Bucky’s wet hair just a little too hard, shaking his own self with worry and fear for the one person he loves most in the world.

In the end, he helps Bucky scrub his hands in the snow before dragging him back to the remains of the camp. Steve wraps him in the last remaining tarp before blowing the emergency horn kept at his side. They’re both escorted to the sick bay, where Steve keeps a careful eye on Bucky and an ear out for news. The Master Hunter of the _Shield_ thinks there might have been a fight for territory between the predators sighted because one was found wounded, obviously by another beast, and yet another ran at the first sign of the scouts. No losses among the crew, but they would be moving somewhere more secure nonetheless.

After the two of them are allowed to leave and told to rest up for the rest of the day, they retreat to the dorm where they both squish into Steve’s bed. They hold each other until the both stop trembling, piling every blanket between their two beds on top of them. Usually the dorm wards frown on bed-sharing, but Steve figures they’ll get a free pass for tonight.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The only time they talk about it at all is right before they go to sleep.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“You think I can be fixed?”

“I think there ain’t nothin’ needs fixin’.”

“You’ve seen me. Killing who-knows-what--”

“—they’re _animals_ , Buck. You’ve only every killed hares and weasels and those kinds of things. We checked, remember?”

“How do you know it won’t get worse? What if I go after something more… important?”

Steve rolls over to look at Bucky seriously, eyes pinning the brunet with the intensity of his gaze. “I know it’s gonna be okay because I can tell you’re in there somewhere. You came back here, didn’t you? To me. And you’ve never, ever hurt me, and I _know_ you’ve had the chance. You maybe don’t always look like you, but it’s still you in there. And I don’t think who you _are_ needs fixing.

“But even if there was, I wouldn’t let you face it down alone. We promised, didn’t we?” Steve’s eyebrows draw together in his intensity and he grabs Bucky’s hands in both of his, squeezing so Bucky knows he’s there. “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

“And this ain’t it yet,” Bucky murmurs between them like a secret.

“Not yet.” It’s a promise.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When they’re thirteen, the shamans come to find children with Talent. They’re to be taken for training and Bucky is among them, as Steve knew he would be. The shamans also take the most promising among the children to be Guardians.

“It’s okay if they don’t take you, Stevie,” Bucky says quietly across the pillow. They do this sometimes, late at night after everyone else is asleep—sleep together. One of them always has to wake up extra early to slip away before their minders come by, but more often than not it’s worth it for the comfort.

“I know, but I can do it. I’m going with you, and I’m gonna be your Guardian and keep you safe.”

“Even if you’re chosen, you won’t see me for at least three years,” Bucky reminds him.

“We’ll see each other four times a turning, and that’s better than nothing,” Steve responds stubbornly. “I just want to do something… something _real_ ,” he sighs. “Something that matters.”

“Everyone matters, Stevie; you know that,” Bucky chides. “You’d be a great recordkeeper—I know they’re considering you already. You’ve got the best letters and sketches.”

“Writing!” Bucky hurries to muffle Steve’s indignant shout. “Writing, when there are men and women out there scouting the floes, and Guardians helping to protect the Shroud, and Far-Hunters keeping beasts away from the migration patterns? Risking their lives for our people, and you want me to keep _records_?” Steve’s eyes are betrayed and unhappy and Bucky is torn between helping his friend stay realistic without wounding his self-esteem.

“I’m just saying that not everyone can hunt or scout or run messages. It doesn’t make what they’re doing any less important. What if you tried to apprentice to an herbalist? Your mother was one, right? I’m sure someone would be interested, and they save people all the time.”

“Griffen already has his apprentice, Sam has a real head for it and for getting people to stay calm. I’d have to find another sister-ship to train at, and the competition is already high. I don’t want to take a space from someone who’s had that dream for ages, even if I might still remember some of the things my mother taught me.”

A heavy silence descends on the two boys, broken when Bucky shuffles closer to twine his fingers with Steve’s. “Hey, they only take the really early ones now. You know there’s training you can take, and there are the later gantlets. I’ll put off bonding with any until I see you; how about that?”

“Not if it’ll keep you safe.” Steve’s eyes flash in alarm. “I’m gonna do everything I can to make it out there with you, but you need to stay as safe as you can. You’re all I got left.”

“But I’m gonna see you out there,” Bucky teases gently, bringing them full circle.

“Damn straight you will."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They don’t choose Steve. There’s a moment where one of the Guardians hesitates, a vaguely interested look on her face.

“Concentrate on this, Rogers,” she says, handing him a hard leather ball with sinew stitching. He pokes it a little, but it’s hard and unforgiving. “I didn’t say to play with it; focus!”

Steve has to bite back a cutting remark, but he focuses on the ball. He has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing with this, and none of the other first-time hopefuls have had to mess with this thing at all. Nothing happens, and Steve is starting to sweat under the pressure of having to make this ball… do something mysterious, apparently. “How am I supposed to make it do anything when you haven’t told me the _goal_?” Steve finally snaps, frustrated.

Beside him, Brock laughs under his breath and it makes Steve madder than ever. He’s used to being laughed at by now, but it doesn’t make him hate it any less.

“It’s done its job, and that’s all you need to know,” she says coolly. She plucks the ball from his hands and continues down the line. “Mister Rumlow, did you want to try this?”

Radiating smugness, he takes the ball and cradles it between his hands, frowning in concentration. It’s obvious that he’s getting frustrated when nothing happens, and he glares harder. Seconds tick by, and many of the other candidates are starting to break formation just to stare. Some are whispering among themselves or even laughing. Steve isn’t laughing; he’s watching intently to see if anything changes; if there’s a trick to this somehow.

“Enough,” the instructor says. “Thank you.”

“It’s a test, isn’t it?” Steve calls. The instructor turns to face him, an eyebrow raised.

“Excuse me, Mister Rogers?”

“The ball. It doesn’t do anything. It’s a test, isn’t it? Something we do or don’t do when you give us something you know we’ll fail at.”

“A good guess, but…” The Guardian take the ball and places it in her palm. After a moment, it starts to emit a soft red light between the loose stitches. “Does that answer your question?”

Much later, Steve finds the Guardian at the prow of the ship. She’s looking across the hazy ice they cut through, lost in thought. 

“Can I try again?” he asks.

She doesn’t raise her gaze from the water. “What makes you think you deserve that more than anyone else?”

“Well, you didn’t say you didn’t let the others try.”

Steve stands up as straight as he can and waits, jaw set. He starts to believe that the Guardian is going to ignore him and is considering how to next tackle the problem when the little ball is dropped into his hand.

“Go on, then. Impress me.” She sounds amused when she says it, but he refuses to be baited and cups the ball in his hands, frowning. When a whole minute goes by and nothing happens, he moves the ball around in his hand, inspecting it from all sides.

“There’s no trick to it, boy,” she drawls.

“That simple?” Steve asks.

“That simple.”

Steve looks at it again and takes a deep breath, his expression evening out. Balancing the ball carefully at the ends of his fingertips, letting his gaze unfocus. The seams begin to glow a dull red. Surprised, Steve almost drops it, looking up to catch the expression the Guardian is making. Only… there isn’t one. If she’s surprised, she isn’t letting on. More determined than ever, Steve hunches over and cups the ball in his hands again. He takes three deep breaths, imagining Bucky beside him. _In slowly… now out. That’s it. In, two three, four. Hold. Out…_ On his third exhale, the gaps between the stitches start to glow again, a little irregular but with the light steadily growing brighter until the spaces shine like blood-red gems. He grins, victorious, and offers it back to its owner.

Steve thinks the Guardian might be offering him her first real smile today, and he grins back.

“You figured it out, hm?”

“I was wrong about it being a test—it’s an indicator for Bond, isn’t it? How well one would take? How much a Guardian can give?”

The Guardian’s smile widens. “Test or not, everyone takes the sphere without asking questions. Following orders is a sign of a good Guardian.”

“Maybe, but I think that understanding how to serve best is another.”

The Guardian shakes her head and pockets the ball but continues to smile.

“So? I did it, didn’t I? I’m compatible? I could do it, if I wanted: I could be a Guardian.”

“It’s not so easy, boy.”

“Steven.”

“Just because you’re compatible, or your potential for a Bond is strong, doesn’t mean you’d be a good candidate for Guardian. It’s a _physical_ job, Steven, and a dangerous one.”

“I know that! The training is so we can take care of ourselves and our shamans!”

“And we aim to prepare Guardian trainees as early as possible so they can reach that stage as quickly as possible—not run you to the ground so you can join the ocean early,” she snaps. “You know the figures, don’t you? Tell me.”

“Of Guardian candidates, only 70% chosen will accept. Of those 70% remaining, 60% will fail or leave of their own accord and up to 7% may perish as a result of extreme exhaustion, injuries and illnesses either sustained in training exercises or otherwise.” He’s had the data memorized for years now. “But those 3% that complete the program are so much more competent! The years and experience—the _training_ given is unparalleled! I’ve passed the test, which means it’s my right to try, and I’ve been told I’m a stubborn person, sir.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, Steven. But _my_ job is to make sure we don’t waste lives needlessly. That’s why we let anyone go home who decides they don’t want to be a Guardian. That’s why we choose carefully, and why the novitiates are given so many openings to leave.”

He knows how to read between the lines: The Guardian thinks that because of the weakness of his body, Steve won’t be able to sustain the training. That he’ll become one of the 7% who will rest below the ice. And it’s her job to keep that number as low as possible; he understands that. But what she doesn’t understand is how he meant it when he said he was stubborn. He’ll make Guardian or die trying, because it’s needful and useful and because he and Bucky promised each other to stay together until the end.

“You can try again as an adult, Steven,” the Guardian says. “Most of us do. It’s better that way—you’ll be comfortable in your own body; fully grown. You’ll have more experience to draw on for the life ahead; more skills with which to aid your shaman. It just requires patience.”

Steve Rogers has never been a patient person, but he’s never been wholly unreasonable, either. There will be no swaying this Guardian. He can’t even really blame her—if their roles had been reversed, he would have denied the scrawny weakling too. She probably even thinks it’s for his own good. He wonders if she’s also thinking what he’s heard others whisper during the times he’s ill enough that only the caretakers or Bucky will come to see him: that he’s so sickly, so ill and weak that he won’t live to adulthood. Maybe the Guardian thinks she’s doing him a favor, letting him have as much of his short life as possible to spend doing something less… fruitless. But Steve has never given up in his life, and he doesn’t intend to start now.

“You’ll see me again, sir,” Steve says, posture stiff with pride and fighting the urge to clench his hands into fists.

“My name is Maria,” she says, nodding. “And somehow, I don’t doubt it.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Steve is sixteen when he gets word of Bucky. There’s a ship conclave every few years, and this one would be the first time that he will get to see his best friend again. Shaman initiates are often sequestered for the first few years, but everyone gets to mingle during a conclave. They made plans before Bucky left to meet by the _Shield_. It’s the ship they know best, after all. He wants to tell Bucky all the things he’s missed out on the last few years—how Steve has gotten an offer to be a hunter on another ship when he ages out of _Shield_ ; how he busted Brock’s lip for him again (he won’t mention how Brock nearly broke his arm in response); that he’s finally started growing and gaining weight, although he’s hoping it’s evident enough without him having to say anything.

He waits until true dark falls and the fires burn at their highest before he gets worried. A horrible feeling clenches in his gut and he’s wondering if he should risk wandering around and possibly missing Bucky at their appointed meeting-spot when a gloved hand lands on his shoulder. It startles him out of his reverie and for a moment his heart leaps, thinking Bucky just showed up late. But no, the silhouette is too slender to be Bucky even three years ago, even though there is the faint golden gleam of a shaman’s collar under this person’s coat. Another shaman or initiate, then. He starts to scramble to his feet to greet the newcomer properly, but they press down on his shoulder to keep him there and sit beside him instead. They push back their hood to reveal a thin face and large brown eyes. Female. He tries a smile, but her expression is so serious that it dies on his lips.

“You’re Steven Rogers?”

He wants to ask how she knows, but it wouldn’t be hard for any of his ship-mates to point him out in the circle. She would have only had to ask.

“Yes.” The dreadful feeling starts to tingle all the way to his fingers when her eyes only grow sadder.

“My name is Wanda. I am—I was one of Bucky’s year-group. We were friends. He was almost as close as a brother to me.”

 _Was. Were._ Her word choices aren’t lost on Steve.

“I’m so sorry,” she continues.

“No.” He cuts off the rest of her words. He doesn’t want to hear them. Steve’s mother brought him up with better manners than that, and so did the dormitory wards. But fear makes him short, like if he shuts this girl up, she won’t say something horrible. But her expression hardens and she sits straighter, like she’s bracing herself, and Steve’s world falls apart.

“He talked about you all the time. His best friend. How you were going to be a Guardian when you were old enough. It took me all day to find you because I thought you’d be one of the trainees.”

“They wouldn’t take me,” he whispers. He can’t even look at her anymore.

“He would have wanted you to have this.” Her small hand appears just at the edge of his vision, holding a small, wooden box. Steve recognizes it as a trinket-box Bucky had carved for himself a long time ago. As orphans, they never owned much that was truly their own. Everything he had is probably in that box. He opens it to find a few scraps of parchment, some of which have drawings Steve recognizes as his own. He hadn’t realized that Bucky had kept any of them. Another one is a drawing of Steve himself, in what he realizes is Bucky’s style. At the bottom, he finds a perfectly round crystal that glows faintly with a soft, blue-white light. It’s not enough to illuminate anything; barely bright enough to see that it’s glowing over the light of the bonfire. He holds it up in fascination.

“It’s the first project every initiate works on. A trinket, really, but he was one of the first to get the knack of it. It’s supposed to increase in light with a phrase or a word, but I never knew what his was,” Wanda offers. “It’s how I knew he’d want you to have his things.”

“How’s that?” He hadn’t thought about how Wanda knew to seek him out, other than hearing Bucky talk about him. He realizes in a rush that Bucky must have spoken of him often if a girl he’s never met knew how to find him.

“Because he used to joke that he should have named it Steve: brilliant, but only in flashes. Harder than a fist to the face. Bigger than it looks.”

She says it in a way that sounds so like Bucky that Steve has to blink fast to clear his eyes of more tears. “Jerk,” he murmurs fondly.

In his hand, the little crystal flares to life.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit on the story is welcomed so long as it's gentle. We both love kudos, comments, and questions, so please leave them if you feel so inclined! Even a single word or emoji will be treasured like the precious that it is.
> 
> Feel free to ask me stuff on Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/). I ended up with a bunch of worldbuilding and background that didn't belong or fit in the fic, so hit me up if you want boring details and headcanons.
> 
> Go stare in wonder at [@madara-nycteris](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com/), whose attention to detail is nothing short of amazing.
> 
> And on that note: Check out her [original art](https://www.deviantart.com/madara-nycteris/art/The-White-Wolf-751570614) (outlink to her dA) for this! It will also be embedded later in the story, but if you're curious then why wait? OR YOU CAN SAVE THE SURPRISE! Choose wisely. ;)


	3. A Risk We Have to Take

“Welcome to the _Triskelion_ , Shaman.”

“Steve!”

Wanda breaks away from her small entourage to run to him, throwing her arms around him happily. “I didn’t know you lived here!”

“What kind of a surprise would it have been if I’d told you?”

Wanda bats at his shoulder in mock-offense. “Sneaky,” she scolds.

“The _only_ thing our captain is sneaky about,” a redhead mutters, passing by. It startles Wanda into a laugh, which she politely tries to hide from Steve.

“What does that mean?” she whispers as Steve escorts her back. They still need to take her things to her new quarters.

“That’s Natasha. She says I’m as quiet as a bear looking for a mate.” Steve pulls a face. “But she’s won stealth games across fifteen scouting troops, so I listen to her.”

“You listen to me because I’m right, Rogers!” Natasha sings back.

“And she has the ears of a hare,” he adds loudly. Somewhere behind him, another teammate snorts with suppressed laughter.

“It’s lively here,” Wanda observes.

“Mostly just my troop. We’re slightly infamous for it.”

“He means that his troop holds the record for number of reprimands. Recklessness, insubordination, improper conduct. You’d do well to stay clear of them, Shaman.”

Steve has to hold back the urge to growl and snap at Brock like an animal. They stopped getting into physical fights years ago, before they even left the _Shield_ , and it was easier to keep the peace when they thought they’d be leaving and would never see each other again. Of all the places he could have landed four years after leaving, and it’s the one ship in all the clans that holds Brock Rumlow. But they’re mature enough to put aside their differences now, so they can work together for the sake of the clan. They just work together best when they’re on opposite ends of the ship, that’s all.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to Shaman Pierce.”

Wanda doesn’t question why Peirce didn’t come greet her himself—he’s a fairly influential shaman with a reputation for excellence, and his ability to work in groups is almost unparalleled, and Wanda has only a handful of years outside her apprenticeship. That Pierce asked her to work with him at all is an honor. It reinforces Steve’s suspicions about the strength of Wanda’s Talent. The girl is modest, but the times they’d gotten to be together in person, he’d felt her radiating power the way fires radiate warmth. He’d set the feeling aside every time because he had no basis for justification, but a small part of him now is thrilled that he could be right. That kind of sixth sense is something many of the best Guardians have, and he’s never given up on his dream. Surely that will give him an edge somehow.

“Are you going on patrol soon?” Wanda places a hand on Steve’s arm to keep him in place.

“Not for another three days.”

She smiles. “Excellent. Then you won’t mind being my guide tonight?”

“It would be an honor, Shaman.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The next day, Wanda tells him she’s acquired permission to go with his team on their next mapping run. While not unheard-of, it’s also not typical for a shaman to accompany a scouting team.

“The terrain the _Triskelion_ is approaching has been changing quickly,” she says by way of explanation. “You can map it faster and more accurately if I’m with you, and Shaman Pierce tells me he isn’t as young as he used to be.”

Steve trades places with Clint and Scott, who normally take left flank—he can’t act as point with Wanda to worry about, and she’s expressed interest in learning how to man a cutter on her own. There’s no way for him to teach her in a single run, but he can make a start. Unfortunately, it will also slow them down. Scott is the best mapmaker on his team anyway, and the most experienced.

It isn’t until the _Triskelion_ has disappeared in the distance that Wanda does anything other than nod her understanding of Steve’s sailing lessons. She reaches up to pull out the little earring that is witched to connect her to the rest of the group when they’re out on missions like this, and gestures for him to do the same. As soon as the metal is free from his skin, Wanda’s whole posture relaxes.

“Something on your mind?” They’re moving at a steady pace and the wind isn’t fighting them, making Steve’s job easy for now.

“We needed to talk without anyone else listening in.” She stays standing so he can hear her even over the rush of wind around them. “And I need you to listen with an open mind.”

“Are you asking me this as my friend or as my shaman?”

“Can’t I be both?”

He looks her over again; the way she’s braced and the grim set of her mouth. No good news was ever delivered that way. “Of course you can. Whatever you tell me won’t leave this ship.”

“Actually, I hope it will,” she mutters, but the wind whips it away before Steve can truly hear it. “The Shroud is failing,” she announces.

Steve is glad he can steer practically in his sleep because the news stuns him like a punch to the face. “What?”

“It has been for a while, at least. The degradation is too widespread; too acute.”

“When is the council announcing it? The next summit isn’t for another—”

“The Council of Shamans isn’t announcing it,” Wanda interrupts. “They deny that it’s happening.”

“Then why would you think—”

“I’ve been tracking it. They set trainees to monitoring the Shroud quite early. At first you can’t affect it, but they let you watch and show you how to tell a piece needs repair. And it _looks_ fine overall, but so does a dying ice-ship, doesn’t it? It looks hale until the rot spreads too far.”

“You’re saying the Shroud is rotting? After hundreds of years? And the council… What? Is in denial?”

“They don’t believe such a thing can fail. Those watching it see only the larger picture, but the Shroud is _huge_. It has to be, to cover the entire world. And it has so many points to anchor it and feed it… I thought it was just me. I tried to bring it up to senior shamans, but it was dismissed every time. I was young when I started; they told me I had a strong Talent, so I thought maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. But Bucky… He said he’d noticed too. And he showed me how spells had to be cast stronger but they weren’t lasting as long. How the newer mends weren’t being absorbed as quickly, and how the spell-net’s distribution is becoming unreliable.”

Steve has to clear his throat a few times to get rid of the sudden tightness there. “You can prove this?”

Wanda glances away. “No. They’re trends over only the past two hundred years or so. Compared to the existence of the Shroud, it’s all very recent. The council told us they investigated and it was found to be a normal fluctuation in the spell-weave. But it’s worrying, so Bucky and an older novice, Moira, started digging through archives whenever we stopped in the cities, trying to put together a timeline or find better evidence that the Shroud was weakening.”

“What did they find?”

Wanda takes a deep breath. “That’s the thing. After the accident, Moira wouldn’t even stay in the same room as me, much less talk to me. I didn’t think she was that close to Bucky, but…” Wanda doesn’t need to specify which ‘accident’ she’s speaking of. There’s only ever the one when they talk like this.

“You think she had something to do with it?” Steve asks sharply. Wanda shakes her head.

“I doubt it. Even if she did, we’ll never find out; she died last year. I was told it was another accident during a difficult repair. Even more in her favor? She left me this.” Wanda carefully holds up a scrap of parchment. Steve squints at it for a while before shaking his head.

“I don’t understand. It looks like the Serpent, but it has too many faces. What is it?”

“I don’t know, but it feels… bad.” She frowns at it. “I think that’s why she left it to me even though we hadn’t spoken in years. It’s part of my Talent, getting feelings like that. Not always reliable, but useful. And she hid it in this.” Wanda carefully tucks the parchment away before pulling out a crudely carved wolf. The only truly skilled thing about it is how pressing just so on the tail causes part of the bottom to loosen and move, revealing a small hollow barely large enough for the scrap Wanda had shown him. She demonstrates, then tucks the parchment in and closes it up, hiding it in her coat when she’s done.

“She went through a lot of trouble to hide it.”

Wanda nods soberly. “I thought, when I was assigned here with Shaman Pierce, that I could bring it up then. His reputation is impeccable, especially when it comes to knowledge about the Shroud.”

“Did you?”

Wanda clutches the pocket where the wolf lies. “When I went to speak with him on the first day, he had a piece of jewelry shaped like the symbol. It could mean he’s someone to contact, but…”

“But you can’t risk it.” He sees Wanda nod out of the corner of his eye. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, you can’t just keep this all to yourself. You’d be putting yourself in danger with no allies to watch your back.”

“That’s why I’m telling _you_. Like you said, I need people I can trust. Saying that the Shroud could fail is a serious accusation. Even more serious to say that the Shamanic Council either doesn’t know or is hiding it. I’m trying to piece it together, but I’m only one person. There’s no way I can scan enough of the Shroud on my own to get a decent picture of the damage, much less find out how to fix it all.”

“What if you’re wrong and there’s nothing happening to the Shroud, like the council says?”

“Do you really want to take that risk?”

They both know his answer to that. He chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “I don’t know any other shamans,” he says finally, “but I know other people who might be able to help.”

Wanda nods, looking relieved. “It will be a start.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
_“Your whole team?”_ Wanda hisses.

“I trust them; they’re discrete and they don’t spook easy.”

Just ahead of them, a high-pitched screech echoes through the air. “Clint, man, that wasn’t funny! You know I don’t like centipedes! They have too many legs and nothing is supposed to bend that way!”

“Not about important things,” Steve amends.

When they reach the camp proper, Sam is the only one actively working, poking at a stew bubbling on the pot above the fire. He looks up, aggrieved, when he sees Steve and Wanda approach with their things.

“It’s been like this for an hour,” he says tiredly. “But Clint found a herd of elk not too far off the route, so it’s looking up for the hunting parties, at least. And you, Shaman Wanda? Has our captain bored you to death yet?”

“He’s been very courteous,” she evades. “And gracious in answering my questions.”

“Curiosity is always a good thing to have in a student," Scott butts in, apparently over the centipede incident. “And a shaman, I imagine.”

Steve tenses in anticipation—this is a good time to segue into the topic he really wants to discuss. As if she can read his mind, Wanda turns slightly to look at him. Her expression is still full of trepidation, but under that he can see her trust in him. He’s positive that it won’t be misplaced.

“We need to talk,” he announces. He gestures at his ear. “But you’ll need to take your far-speakers out first.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“This is serious,” Natasha says more than an hour later. It had taken that long for them to convince the team that it wasn’t a joke, and for the team to ask the questions they wanted. “Although a failure might explain the sudden change in landscape. I thought this run was odd, so I checked—the maps for this area are usually updated every dozen years or so, but the _Zephyr_ mapped it only five years ago, and the _Vasilisa_ eight years before that.”

“Five years?” Scott cuts in sharply. He’s the best cartographer on the _Triskelion_ so Fury puts up with him even though he acts like a bumbling idiot nearly eighty percent of the time. Steve wishes he were more serious, but Scott is perceptive and extremely loyal and he considers them lucky to have him. Especially right now, with the man muttering to himself and pinning their old map next to the new one, scraping lines of nonsense into the snow furiously. “Why didn’t I notice this sooner? I saw that the elk populations had shifted, but… ah, a new migration pattern…So this formation can’t be more than…” He trails off, muttering angrily to himself. Steve guesses that whatever Scott has noticed doesn’t bode well.

When Scott doesn’t volunteer any more information, Clint nudges him with a foot. “Translate for the rest of us, please.”

“A lot of terrain in this area revolves around specific ice formations and patterns,” he starts.

“Most of the _world’s_ terrain is ice,” Sam mutters. Steve frowns him into silence.

“Right,” Scott nods, not missing a beat, “But this area is considered unusually stable. It’s one of the better landmarks for this circuit, actually, and has some of the most stable wildlife populations. A certain amount of change over the decades is expected, but we’re talking about a new path where elk migrations have cut, or a little wind damage or the occasional rockslide. The bigger changes I’m mapping right now might not seem too odd in a ten-year span or so, especially if some of those years have been rough. But for only five years? I need to get the last two iterations of maps so I can be sure, but if this is the speed at which the landscape is changing…” He shakes his head. “The Shroud is supposed to keep the temperature in this area stable, which would make the terrain reliable as well. Rapid change means that the temperature is rising and falling again, particularly making the taller geographical features shift in shape faster than normal. They might re-freeze differently, too, and in less stable formations.”

The group falls silent to digest this information, allowing Scott to go back to his calculations in peace.

Finally, Natasha turns her focus to Wanda. “You don’t think it has to do with the prophecy, do you?”

Wanda’s eyes narrow. “What do you know about the prophecy?” she asks at the same time that Clint looks up from tending the fire and says, “What prophecy?”

“Only that it predicts the Shroud’s fall, and that it has to do with the Serpent and a wolf.” Natasha gestures to the figurine still in Wanda’s hands. “That your friend chose to hide this symbol in that is too much of a coincidence to really call it that.”

“What prophecy are you talking about?” Clint repeats. The rest of the team looks at Wanda expectantly. She sighs.

_“From the North and West | come the Serpent,_  
And North and South | fall the Shroud.  
Hither comes the ranks of Man | with magic and steel  
To find the pale wolf | free the beast of its chains. 

_Many heads make many mouths | each in venom ringed_  
The battle is sounded | in screams and spells  
Silver shielded warrior | attacks in hail of flame  
When finally stilled the field | the world in gold begun anew.” 

“What does that mean?” Clint looks baffled.

“If we knew what it meant, it wouldn’t be a proper prophecy, would it?” Natasha retorts. “But it might explain the symbol and the figure your friend left you. Maybe she knew something?”

“That was my thought,” Wanda confirms. “But I’m not sure who I can trust. She’d already gone to the council concerning the Shroud well before she died. Why did she feel the need to hide this?”

“You think the council is covering this up,” Scott realizes. “You think they killed her because she knew something.”

Wanda’s eyes slide away. “I don’t know what to think, but I’m not sure she died as it was said she did. It was supposed to have been an illness, but Moira was excellent with herbs and she’s always been robust. And…”

“And there was Bucky,” Steve murmurs. “A training accident, but no body.”

Wanda nods. “But I have no proof; only suspicions and misgivings. That isn’t enough to act on. I was thinking of asking Shaman Pierce,” she offers tentatively.

“Don’t,” Natasha barks. Everyone turns to her. “I know where I’ve seen that symbol. Pierce has it embroidered on his cuffs.” She touches her wrists to illustrate. “If that was a warning, we’d do better to find someone else.”

“How do we know Moira didn’t mean for us to find other people with the symbol?” Clint argues.

“Then why did she go through such great lengths to hide it?”

“I know someone we can trust,” Scott says unexpectedly. “Another shaman. But he’s in the panther clan.”

“We’ll be passing by their range in another ten days or so,” Clint mutters, looking over the map. “If we’re lucky, we’ll run alongside his ship. Do you know which one he’s on?”

Scott shrugs apologetically. “I haven’t spoken with him in almost five turns. He’ll remember me, though—he’s the one who got me kicked out of the assignment.”

“And you want to trust this guy?” Clint asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, I had it coming.”

“If we’re even more lucky, he’ll be at the gantlet for the new Guardians,” Natasha comments. “He might have other people he trusts, and we could speak to them all at once.”

Wanda nods slowly. “That would be… ideal. I’m no longer sure how quickly the spell-net is deteriorating, and a new spell may take decades to craft if the flaw is in the original.”

“Then we’re settled. We’ll wait for the gantlet to find new allies. In the meantime, Wanda, stay close to one of us. If we’re right and there’s something more sinister at play, we can help keep you safe. If we’re wrong—and I hope we are—you’ll just have to deal with a reputation of associating with the ship’s misfits.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit on the story is welcomed so long as it's gentle. We both love kudos, comments, and questions, so please leave them if you feel so inclined! Even a single word or emoji will be treasured like the precious that it is.
> 
> Feel free to ask me stuff on Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/). I ended up with a bunch of worldbuilding and background that didn't belong or fit in the fic, so hit me up if you want boring details and headcanons.
> 
> Go stare in wonder at [@madara-nycteris](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com/), whose attention to detail is nothing short of amazing.


	4. Gantlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I thought I posted this chapter last night, and then it just... didn't. So here it is! Another chapter will be up this evening, unless AO3 disagrees with that sentiment. <3

Thirty candidates between seven ships: That’s how many people start the gantlet with him. The gantlet runs for one whole day—twenty-four hours of tasks designed to break any candidate less than excellent because only the most capable can be trusted with the life of a shaman.

Fortifying the Shroud is risky and taxing on both mind and body; the job of a Guardian is to protect their shaman when they are otherwise occupied or vulnerable and to act as trusted companions in their travels. Any shaman at any time may have to deal with an emergency that can pull them away from a regular route and even put them into dangerous territory. Their Guardian will stay with them and ease the way, charged with helping them to maintain the Shroud to the best of their abilities. There are tales of Guardians fighting even after their hearts stop beating to ensure a shaman can complete an essential spell, falling dead as soon as their mission is over. Tales of shamans missing for a turn or more only to reappear as healthy as ever, kept alive by the Guardian at their side. It’s an important job, and one that Steve wants badly to hold. He has no Talent, but he can still help his people this way.

At the whistle this morning, they selected and readied one-man cutters, inspected and corrected them, took a map and a small cache of supplies, and head out. They were given seven hours to hunt using only two weapons of choice and a standard hunting knife. Anything killed or harvested must be brought back, the ships properly stowed and inspected before the window is over. Each candidate will be judged on how much (or little) they bring back, what weapons were chosen, the condition of the vessel… the list goes on.

Steve makes it in six hours, hauling a slim ice antelope that he’s field-cleaned and stuffed with snow. In another pouch are enough leaves and berries to make a small salad. He hadn’t wanted to dawdle, but if this is a survival test, then no food can be passed over. He has enough time to do a cursory inspection before a senior Guardian comes to assess his performance.

A familiar wry smile looks up at him. “I knew I would see you again, Steve,” Maria says. She’s older—of course she’s older—but has the same no-nonsense, capable feeling to her. “Now give me a field report.”

Maria grills him on all his choices—why this ice antelope? Why not a bigger one, or a deer? Why go in that direction? Why use a bola? Why stop for plant foraging when he already had meat? Why not bring back the liver?

“Actually, I do have it.” He reaches into a basket packed with snow and uncovers the top, taking what’s left and splitting it in half, giving some to Maria, who takes it.

“It’s better warm,” she remarks. “Wait—did you eat _all_ that liver?”

“No, Guardian, but the rest is in the carcass and I’m loathe to open it again until the kitchens want it. I thought that the extra nutrition wouldn’t be amiss today.”

“You had rations with you,” she points out.

“And now I will have more available to me later,” he replies evenly. “Should I take the antelope to the cooks?”

Maria frowns at him for a while before writing something on a board in front of her. “Yes,” she says finally, just as Steve starts to fidget. Patience has never been his strong suit. “And then get something hot to drink. We’re only a quarter into the gantlet.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He wants to lie down and give up. He wants to close his eyes and sleep for seventy years. He wants to give in to the demands of his body and _stop fighting_. But he doesn’t, because that isn’t who Steve Rogers is. Steve Rogers doesn’t give up. He doesn’t let his body get in the way of his spirit, and he doesn’t lie down until the fight is over. His fight is still far from over.

When every candidate is tired and all their energy spent— _that’s_ when they’re put to combat. Because a Guardian needs to be able to defend his or her shaman even in the worst of conditions, and they are all hoping to be selected for that exact honor.

Combat takes place until only one person is left standing, although it’s simply a personal honor to take that title. Excelling at the combat phase isn’t dictated by when a person falls in combat, but rather individual skill. That said, it does give one great bragging rights to be the victor and no one who has won the combat round has not been elevated to Guardian status. So Steve stays on his feet and fights on.

The last few minutes have been a haze for him. His body aches with fatigue and the blows he’s already absorbed. His skin burns with both hot and cold, his shirt tossed aside long ago to prevent it from further chilling his skin with the trapped moisture. When he staggers away from his current opponent, who yields to him gracefully but reluctantly, the horn sounds. He whips his head around, breathing hard—the horn means that there are only two people still standing. Only one opponent left, and then he can rest.

It happens in a flurry of movement—the torchlight marking the boundary to his left, someone uses the creaking of the iced-over river to mask the sound on his own running, diving out of the flickering shadows at Steve’s legs. Steve pivots out of the way, overbalancing on the churned-up snow and rolling away just as something whistles by his ear. He’s alert again, adrenaline spiking from the close call. Combat is only to first blood or yield. While candidates have been killed in the past, it’s considered a lack of skill to need to do more than draw blood to cause your opponent to yield. Whatever just went by him was at a high enough velocity to cave someone’s skull.

He rolls again and kicking himself up, popping the first weapon on the ground into his hand: a shield. He changes his grip and flings it up just as another blow comes at his head, blocking a short staff with enough force to travel up his arm and down his shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the ache, he shoves off as hard as he can to gain enough room to at least _look_ at who he’s against.

Brock Rumlow grins back at him, half-mad with battle-lust, that wide smile plastered across his face. Steve has seen that expression more times than he can count, growing up, but he never let it stop him then and he surely will not let it stop him now.

Rolling his head on his shoulders, spinning the staff to get the heft of it, Brock paces around Steve like an animal sizing up prey. Steve refuses to be intimidated; just matches the other man pace for pace, looking for an opening.

The next time they trade blows, Steve taunts Brock into another overhead strike, taking it badly on the edge of his shield but gaining the opening he needed—his kick connects solidly with Brock’s chest, throwing the other man back several feet. The edge of the shield is cracked, so he shakes it off his arm and flings it after Brock’s body like a discus, forcing him to duck back into a crouch. Steve tries to follow it up with a tackle, landing square but his punch going wide, and then Brock is up again and his retaliation is twice as hard.

Steve can’t dodge the kick to his ribs, so he uses it to roll farther away, drawing ragged breaths in between clenched teeth. He shakes out his arms and crouches into a fighting stance, pulling his fists up defensively. When he makes no move for a weapon, Brock’s grin gets even wider and he makes a show of tossing the staff away.

“Better if it’s a fair fight, eh, Rogers?” he taunts. “Like the good old days.”

The good old days when Steve was half Brock’s size and angry with it, jumping in half-cocked at the slightest provocation. He bites down on the urge to say as much, taking his first instructor’s favorite lesson to heart—“Breath used in talking is better used in fighting.” So he strikes, coming in low and hard, feinting a kick only to hook his leg behind Brock’s knee to sling him down. Brock is immovable, like a tree, refusing to bow to Steve’s move and keeping himself up with sheer strength. It gives him the opening to slam his elbow back into Steve’s chest, narrowly missing his solar plexus but knocking the wind out of him nonetheless. Steve goes down, curling up defensively, stupidly leaving his back open to yet another blow, this one to his kidneys. When he feels Brock pin him to the ground, all his other training flies out the window, and it’s back to the _‘good old days’_ indeed.

Steve waits for Brock to start the hold; waits for the precise moment when the other man’s body shifts because he thinks he’s won. Then he bursts into a frenzy of movement, wiggling like an eel, no finesse but all elbows and legs, growling through the pain and dizzy from lack of air. Spending so much of his time getting the breath knocked out of him when he was younger pays off now, because he’s on top of Brock, pinning the other man’s arms to the ground with his knees and sitting on his chest, right hand on his throat before his vision even clears. He can feel his pulse in his eyeballs, but he’s still conscious, if only just. He needs to press his advantage while he still has it.

“Yield,” he croaks. They’re the first words he’s said in an hour. His throat burns with the cold air and exertion. Brock thrashes again, but he pinches harder, slowly cutting off the other man’s air. “Yield now!”

“Never,” Brock manages to spit. His face is purpling red and he looks like he’d gauge out Steve’s eyes if he could. Brock never did like to lose.

“We’re fighting for the same thing, Rumlow; we aren’t enemies, and I don’t want to hurt you. Say you’ll yield!”

For a moment, Steve thinks he’s won. For a moment, he thinks that Rumlow is going to take defeat gracefully, and that they will have a future of grudging but mutual respect, protecting the clans like the thousands of Guardians before them.

And then Brock wrenches free, even though Steve can feel the bones of his forearm grind against each other with the effort; even though he has to dislocate his own shoulder to do it. It tilts Steve’s world sideways for a single instant and that’s all Brock needs to send him flying past the torch ring, dislocated shoulder or not. Steve can feel his body topple one of the staked torches, the sparks barely felt as he skids past it and out onto the ice. Leaving the boundary like that signals a defeat just as surely as if he’d yielded. It’s bitter, but he has to admit that Rumlow took the bigger risk to win. He tries to struggle to his feet, but—

“Stop!”

It’s Brock’s rough voice calling out to him. He can barely make out the other man’s figure in the crazily sputtering light of the fallen torch, but he’s carefully picking his way closer to Steve’s location. “The ice is thin here—one wrong move and you could go under.”

Steve stills and wills his ears to stop ringing. Brock is right, he thinks. The ice under him doesn’t creak as it ought to, but crackles instead, a tiny thing that every person has been trained to listen for when atop water. If he can maneuver onto his belly he might be able to make his way back onto stable ground; at the very least, the wider distribution of his weight should buy him enough time for someone to toss a rope.

Brock inches his way closer, already on his stomach and using his arms to crawl to Steve. He manages to get into a similar position, but it makes the ice crack even more sharply, stopping his tentative movements.

“It’s already cracking,” Steve hisses. He hopes that Brock can hear him over the noise of the river, but if his determined progress is any indication, he doesn’t. “Brock, stop moving; it’s cracked too much already. Just wait for the damn rope or we’ll both go under!”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The other man grins triumphantly as soon as he gets within arm’s reach. Steve wants to roll his eyes, but he can’t say that he wouldn’t have done the same if their positions were reversed—neither of them is the type of people to wait for someone else to take action. He tentatively reaches out his hand, noticing that it’s shaking, hoping that Brock isn’t quite as tired as he is.

“Hold on to this,” the other man whispers, and reaches out to give something to Steve. For a moment, Steve thinks that Brock somehow retrieved a rescue rope and Steve simply hadn’t noticed until now—all the light sources are well behind them, throwing everything into murky shadow. But, no, when he closes his hand around what Brock holds out, it’s just a scrap of parchment. The symbol on it glows for only a moment, a soft flare of light the color of embers dying on a fire, but it’s enough time for Steve to know that he is looking at a many-headed Serpent.

“You see, we’re fighting for the same thing, Rogers,” Rumlow says with, amazingly, some degree of regret. “It’s just that your style will kill the people we’re trying to save. We aren’t enemies, and I don’t want to hurt you.” Steve feels the ice beneath him flash hot for a second, like the water is boiling underneath. Sharp cracks fill the air like an audible representation of hot versus cold, the ice reacting violently to the sudden change in temperature.

 _Magic_ , he thinks wildly as he clutches the symbol in his hand. _A shaman did this._

“But don’t worry,” Brock assures him as he slowly inches away from the encroaching spiderweb cracks. His smile is anything but kind. “You’ll still be helping the clans; just as a martyr.”

Then the ice gives way under Steve, who reactively grabs for anything he can, but there’s nothing to grab. The water feels like knives against his skin, assaulting the most vulnerable areas and emptying his lungs so that he wants to breathe in. Another burst of energy has him bobbing to the surface, but now water pours into his mouth and he can hear shouting; hear Brock shouting “The ice cracked!” and further voices, “He’s under!” and “Rope’s coming!” But he knows, as he tries to cling to a sheet of ice that tilts him back off, that it will all be too late. The current under the river is strong and the ice is breaking up even more around him now that it’s gotten going; slams his back unto another opening in the ice that gives way just as easily, and then he’s under the surface again, unable to find a new crack or a weak spot he can break through.

Brock knew. He’d given Steve the symbol and damned him under the ice and he’d _known_. The worst part is that he doesn’t know _how_ Brock knew, or even what the symbol means. His team and Wanda guessed it meant something dangerous, but some part of Steve hadn’t quite believed how much, and now it’s too late to warn them. He can only hope that he’ll be the only casualty and not the first in a long string of gruesome warnings. Maybe they’ll split up for safety, or lay low, or play dumb. Maybe Wanda’s contact will shelter them from Brock and whoever he works with. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The cold no longer hurts—it’s moved to the numbing stage, much to his relief. He hopes that death for Bucky was something like this. It’s as peaceful as dying can be out here, really. Steve’s body feels far away and he knows he won’t wake up from this one, but for once he thinks he might be ready to accept it. It’s comforting, somehow, the idea of finally joining Bucky after all this.

He really hopes that Bucky won’t mind that he’s late.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He’s burning up. Every part of his body feels like it’s on fire, like brands burning into his flesh. He’d scream if he could, but his throat feels paralyzed. He can feel his blood pumping and his lungs moving and he opens his eyes but everything is horrible and blurry and bright, bright, bright. Pain radiates through his fingers and toes, crawling its way up his extremities like tiny stingers under his skin. Everything feels far away and much too close all at once.

There’s a rough murmur somewhere above him, soothing if it weren’t so confusing. He can’t remember what he did to end up like this. A sickness? Had he fainted? Are the chills symptoms of a fever? Something horrible and heavy is pulled over him, spiking at his skin like a hair shirt and every muscle he has feels like it’s locked up now, everything flashing from burning hot to freezing cold and how long has be been here in this hell?

He strains toward the soothing voice because that’s the only constant thing right now; the only thing that doesn’t hurt, and if he’s sick then it means someone cared enough not to leave him to face it alone. The world is oddly out of focus, but he manages to latch on to a single figure hovering close to him: long hair and a scarf wrapped around the bottom half of their face. He wants to say something; to thank whoever this person is, but they’re not looking at his face, preoccupied with something in their hands, and Steve is losing the fight to stay conscious.

Finally, the person hovers closer, checking Steve’s pulse under his jaw. Steve gets the impression of bright blue-grey eyes just before darkness overtakes everything.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit on the story is welcomed so long as it's gentle. We both love kudos, comments, and questions, so please leave them if you feel so inclined! Even a single word or emoji will be treasured like the precious that it is.
> 
> Feel free to ask me stuff on Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/). I ended up with a bunch of worldbuilding and background that didn't belong or fit in the fic, so hit me up if you want boring details and headcanons.
> 
> Go stare in wonder at [@madara-nycteris](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com/), whose attention to detail is nothing short of amazing.


	5. Shaman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel it prudent to add thanks to [velleities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleities/pseuds/velleities), who managed to get me unstuck here. Without you, this thing would still be on Chapter 4 and slowly dying.

Bucky isn’t really sure what to think. He’s always believed in Steve; known that his friend was destined for bigger and better things than his small body could suggest. And Steve wanted to become a Guardian so _badly_. So what kind of a friend did that make Bucky, that he was relieved Steve didn’t make the cut?

It isn’t as though he’ll _never_ become a Guardian—trials are held again every year, and any adult who could pass a preliminary exam could take his or her chances at the gantlet. It’s just… Steve isn’t as strong in body as he is in mind or will, and now, looking at the trainees sparring each other, he can only feel relieved that Steve isn’t one of them. It’s only been one month and already there have been three broken bones and one trainee was sent home.

Shamans, however, don’t have the luxury of failing training. He turns away from the railing of the ship when he hears a tentative voice call his name. Wanda is younger than him, overflowing with so much Talent that he can feel it like a furnace throwing off heat. Slim, dark-haired and sloe-eyed, her coat seems to swallow her up. He has to resist the urge to tug her closer; protect her from the wind. He doesn’t think that her brother, Pietro, would appreciate it. The other boy is fiercely protective of his sister—together, they’re the last of a handful of survivors from the _Sokovia_ after it had been destroyed by a pack of land-sharks that descended upon it during a whiteout. Their Guardians and Shamans hadn’t survived the assault. It had taken almost a month for the few survivors to be found. Instead of going into a foster-ship like Bucky and Steve had, Wanda had enough Talent to be taken as an initiate right away, and she’d refused to go anywhere without her brother. Bucky understands why they’re so close, and why Pietro is hypervigilant about his sister, but he does wish it were easier to befriend them. Bucky has always been tactile, and he’s not sure how to convince Pietro that he doesn’t care for Wanda as anything but a friend.

“Meditation is starting soon,” Wanda tells him timidly, her words barely loud enough to hear. “I didn’t want you to be reprimanded.” Because he’s been reprimanded twice already, is what she doesn’t say. He can’t help that he has a hard time sitting still—part of him would rather be on the ice doing drills with the trainees.

“I’m coming,” he says instead. If he masters it fast enough, maybe their instructors will give him some leeway in being a little late.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Bucky is nearly fifteen when they start teaching how to check the Shroud. As initiates, they’re only entrusted with watching and observing—the Shroud is protected against unskilled meddling in the first place, and any power strong enough to touch it without permission will alert the closest shamans immediately. It’s their failsafe against rogues and cocky novices, and Bucky has yet to hear of it failing to detect someone.

Checking on the Shroud comes easily to him, he finds. It’s a little like the magical equivalent of keeping a close eye on Steve; a comparison that makes him laugh quietly when he figures it out. The trick is to stay close and watch, but not so much with focus as in a general way, taking in as much of the surrounding area as possible. Attempting to check on a single area of the net tends to register as too much force, causing it to react, but eventually, he teaches himself to do exactly that by using what he privately calls his ‘Steve theory’ and he only gets caught once, on his very first try. It works like this: The Shroud, while not living in such a sense, is sensitive to certain kinds of feedback and acts accordingly. It has to, to be able to keep out enough heat from the sun that the temperature never rises too high, but that it still allows enough light for humans to see by for most of a day. And because it’s fed by the Serpent, there is a certain amount of ‘thinking’ it can do to maintain itself and track other shamans—that’s how the protections on it work so well. If Bucky wants to get close enough to ‘see’ specific parts of it without provoking an unskilled response, he has to walk a fine line between watching and ‘pushing,’ the way he might try to herd Steve away from a bad situation without letting on that he can see it coming. Close enough to ‘touch’ but far enough that it doesn’t register meddling. It takes several months of extra research to make sense of his observations, but what he pieces together isn’t precisely comforting.

Something, he thinks, is wrong with the Shroud.

It still functions as it ought to, or at least the parts they ‘show’ the initiates do. And taken as a whole, the net burns bright and strong in his mind’s eye. But there are parts of it that are less responsive than others, where he can get much closer than normal and it feels weak, like warm spots on a lake of ice. But the same week he discovers this, they start battle-magic, and his hands are too full to try and decipher the net and learn the new material all at once.

Normally, the initiates would have waited for mastery of basic ship-maintenance spells, but Wanda starts having nightmares that scorch the sides of the girls’ dormitory and there’s talk of learning shielding just to protect themselves, so the instructors pile battle-magic on to their ever-growing curriculum and tell them that the extra hours will only make them stronger.

He finds another initiate, Moira, trawling across the lines just as he turns sixteen. It’s an accident that happens only because he’s looking so hard for anomalies that he realizes there are look-away spells on a segment of the net. He memorizes the feel of the other person’s magic and tucks it away in his mind for later; it’s definitely not one of the full shamans aboard the ship, but he’s not familiar enough with all the initiates to identify someone right away—the only person he knows that well is Wanda, and this isn’t her. It isn’t until he’s assigned to work with an older initiate that he recognizes the power signature.

“I know you were in the Shroud a few weeks ago,” he murmurs to her over a diagram. “You make a habit of inspecting it without permission?”

“I see that _you_ do,” she says without turning a hair. He can see her eyes flick to the side, checking to see if anyone is listening in, but no trepidation shows on her face. She’s smooth; he’ll give her that. “Did you tell anyone?”

“I’d have to say how I found you,” he points out. “So, no. But I want to talk more.”

“You want to _talk_ about what we’re doing? Because you want us to get caught?” Moira finally looks at him properly, her brows knit.

“What? No!” He barely manages to keep his voice in check. “No, I just… I want to compare notes,” he finishes lamely. “It was a neat trick you used.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
If Bucky had to pick a metaphor, he’d say that the Shroud is like the wing of a moth: there is a large, delicate skeleton, paper-thin, that outlines how the Shroud stays up and keeps its shape. In order to operate smoothly, it has thousands of smaller spells carefully layered over each other like powder-fine scales, overlapping just so to keep the integrity of the whole. If a few scales fall off here and there, the Shroud will have no problem staying afloat—it’s designed to be resilient without needing to be pristine, after all. And unlike a wing, the Shroud can heal itself or be healed by the many shamans dedicated to watching and maintaining it. So why, then, does it feel like the Shroud is too thick in some places and missing entire pieces in others? As a whole, it still resembles a wing. And if one looks very closely at specific area, no single piece of damage seems too large to overcome. But Bucky is good at detecting patterns and Moira has a way of directing focus just so, and between them the picture is very worrying.

Any segment larger than four patrols but smaller than eight shows an alarming amount of chaos. Smaller segments seem contained; larger and the rest of the Shroud appears to function normally enough. But that careful interlocking means that failure in more than one segment could trigger a collapse, the effect cascading until it would be impossible to stop. The most insidious part is that the shamans, in their biannual meetings, typically only look at the Shroud in its entirety and any single route, the latter of which spans three to four segments of the Shroud at any given time.

Around the time that Bucky and Moira start arguing about whether or not to bring it to an instructor’s attention, Wanda comes to Bucky with a problem.

“I was doing the scanning exercise,” she explains, wringing her hands, “and I know that I’m supposed to do it with supervision, but I got tired of everyone watching me all the time. I wanted to see how much I could do at once; how far I could see if I really pushed myself. And I think…” She casts around for the words she wants to use. Bucky can see the conflict written on her face. “I know that it’s old, but the Shroud seems wrong somehow?” Although she tilts her words up like a question, it’s a statement more than anything else.

Moira is adamant that they not say a word yet; that there is some kind of cover-up on the part of the shamans. Bucky thinks she’s paranoid, but Moira is the most intelligent person he knows and she believes this with all of her heart. Considering saying something himself is one thing, but if Moira’s suspicions prove even remotely correct, Wanda could accidentally stumble onto something much bigger than herself.

“I know,” he tells her finally. “But keep it to yourself for now.”

“Shouldn’t we say something? We could help,” she protests.

“I know, little one.” It’s an endearment he only uses when he’s trying to be both gentle and serious, and she pays attention accordingly. “But you have to trust me with this. Do you know Moira?” He waits for her nod before continuing. “She and I are considering the best way to approach the Shamanic Council. They may be avoiding telling initiates for good reason. Until we know more, please say nothing to anyone.”

She looks up at him, eyes trusting and thoughtful, and finally takes his hand in hers. “I trust you. I won’t say anything, even to Pietro. But you’ll tell me what they say, right? After you tell them? I want to help if I can.”

“Of course,” Bucky promises.

He keeps it, too, even when the answer he gets is less than what he wanted. Despite Moira’s protests, he requests a meeting with as many of their instructors as he can convince to listen, and carefully plans what he will say. It’s a risk, particularly since he hasn’t been authorized to do half the things he has to find out so much, so he leaves Moira out of it completely, spinning his findings as having discovered them himself. After all, if she changes her mind, he’ll be happy to clarify things to give Moira the credit she rightfully deserves.

But the reception his news receives is amused at best and chilly at worst.

Most of the shamans shake their heads and give him variants of, ‘People with more experience have been working on this for a long time,’ and, ‘Don’t worry about this until you’re older.’ Some of them commend him on putting in extra effort while in the same breath chastise him for unsupervised practice. A few are incensed that he has the audacity to insinuate that he might know something about the Shroud that his superiors don’t. All of them assure him that, while the Shroud might need more care after such a long time, any problems are already being seen to. He also gets a ban on doing any exercise of his Talent without direct supervision.

“I told you.” Moira glares at him when they next meet, still angry that he chose to ignore her advice. “No one likes to admit they’re wrong.”

“No, you said they’re hiding something,” Bucky retorts. “But they’re just stuffy and condescending. I know someone will listen. Just maybe not on this ship. After I’m a full shaman, I’ll bring it up to the whole council. Someone will listen to me then.”

But he never gets the chance.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“I don’t understand!”

He’s too shocked to cry, though he can feel the emotion well at the back of his throat. It burns like the shaman’s collar around his neck; like the iron manacles weighing down his wrists, the cold a terrible brand on his skin.

“You killed Pietro. You’re out of control.”

Bucky flinches away from the accusation as though it’s a physical blow. “I didn’t. I know I didn’t.” He’s replayed that day over and over in his head—the screams, the adrenaline coursing through him as the drakes swarmed. The bang of battle-spells being fired; the grinding, bone-popping noise of his change, pain flashing through him for only a moment before he hit the ground with four paws. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the howl that reverberated through his chest before he dove in, adding to the chaos of the scene. Even now, the battle is a blur of colors and sounds and the acidic tang of drake blood, but he remembers one thing very clearly: wrenching a drake away from Pietro’s shredded arm, the younger boy’s face a terrified mask, dark eyes wide as he stared into Bucky’s face. And then his shaky nod, like he understood, although if he really did Bucky will never know. When he was in his own skin again, Pietro was already bleeding out from a nick in the big vein in his arm. The rescue team had been too late.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he repeats brokenly, thinking of Pietro’s unnaturally still body and blood freezing on snow.

“The council thinks otherwise.”

“No, no, no.” Bucky is so busy chanting his denial under his breath that he completely misses how the shaman drives a stake through a ring on his manacles and into the frigid ground below, keeping him rooted to the spot.

“You’re a rabid dog,” the shaman whispers in Bucky’s ear, “ _varkolak_ , and I will put you down like one.”

Bucky startles and shies away from the term, spoken with such venom. _Shapeshifter._ He’d never thought on it too closely, because he wasn’t sure if having two forms made him less than human, and the terrible rage and hunger he used to feel when he first started changing had scared him. He realized years ago how lucky he was that he never took the matter to anyone and that Steve had covered for him as they grew up. Some of his symptoms had been in books, pointing to being a varkolak, but not all of them, not exactly the same, so he had hoped…

But the rescue team that had come too late for Pietro had been in time for one or two to see Bucky shift back, bloody and in shock. He didn’t even realize anyone else had arrived until they’d pried him away, screaming and frantic, from Pietro’s rapidly chilling body. He’d only been searching for the wound so he could stop the bleeding, but they’d restrained him like the wild thing he’d acted.

“I didn’t hurt Pietro,” Bucky begs again. But it sounds like a question in his mouth. “You have to ask the council to reconsider. _Please_. I can—I can control it! I can remember things, sometimes, so I have some control, right? They could help me, so it never happens again. I only want to help. We need everyone we have watching the Shroud—”

“And you’ve hit on problem number two, James.” Not ‘initiate James.’ He’s already distancing himself. James isn’t a shaman in this man’s eyes. “The Shroud, and your poking around in it. It’s a bit problematic, you know. I mean, everyone does it once or twice, but I think we both know you went far beyond that? Trying to raise an alarm… it would cause a panic, and for what? Incomplete knowledge is dangerous; we taught you that, didn’t we?” He waits for Bucky’s nod and crouches down, checking the strength of Bucky’s bonds. “We cherish intelligence and ambition, usually, but this kind of marriage to outdated methods…” The shaman clicks his tongue.

“You could join us. I can’t convince the council to take you back, but there are a few ‘outcasts’ who understand that we can’t keep living this way.”

“What are you talking about?”

The shaman flicks open his coat to show Bucky a stylized depiction of the Serpent, but with far too many heads. Its golden chain wraps the badge in a final circle. “Hydra. Cousin to the Serpent, in a way. We only want to see the prophecy through; improve life for all our people. Haven’t you ever wanted to know what spring would be like? All those paintings full of color and sun, and our world is forever dark. It’s our _right_ to live there. Do you understand?”

Bucky bites back his words. Truthfully, he’d often wished to see, just once, the world those old paintings lived in. What would it be like have a world bright and soft? If there wasn’t ice for miles? If people didn’t have to live so close together because warmth would be so abundant that there was no need to share fires or furs or body-heat? But all those things would come at a price, and it’s not one he’s willing to pay—it’s one that no one was willing to pay.

“We can’t,” he croaks out. “The Serpent would kill us all. And it is immortal.”

“But what if it didn’t kill everyone? What if we could strike a deal with it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Keep it satisfied and away from inhabited lands.”

“It is never satisfied. Even if it understood and agreed, what if it broke the treaty? It would have learned from its mistakes—we might not be able to capture it a second time.”

“Then we’ll kill it,” the shaman says simply.

Bucky can feel his breath snatched away from the ridiculousness of it all. It can’t be killed. And even if someone managed to destroy it, there would be consequences from killing a being whose own magic is old enough to rival that of the entire world. A being whose magic can prop up the Shroud itself. There would be no undoing it if the cost was too high. No, even if killing the Serpent were possible, the repercussions would be unthinkable.

“You’re crazy.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No! That plan is… it’s complete madness. What would we even bargain with? The only thing the Serpent ever wanted was—” Bucky chokes when he sees the serious glint in the shaman’s eyes. “Dear gods, you’re talking about giving it _people_. You’re talking about bribing it with _lives_.”

“A few for the good of the many. We already do it. How many shamans have died trying to hold spells against cold or ice or wind or any of the dozens of predators this icy hell has fostered? How many ships have blown astray; teams lost forever because they couldn’t find their way out of the dark? The Shroud has a cost too, but you fail to notice because that has always been the way of it. When someone proposes something new that has the same consequences, you balk.” This doesn’t seem to be just about Bucky anymore.

“How would you choose who dies, then? A sacrifice from every city? Every house? How many times a year? How will you explain to our people, then, why we are sending them to die?”

“I can see that you’ve already made up your mind and will no longer listen to anything I say.” The shaman rises and dusts the snow and ice off his pants. “Which is a pity, because we might have had use for a bright mind like yours, varkolak or not.” He dumps something that was in his pack and starts arranging it just so. Bucky realizes that it’s compressed firewood—it will burn hot and bright for hours unless the wind puts it out, and today is not a windy day. He doesn’t understand why the shaman would bother, as it’s too far away to provide Bucky with warmth and he’s obviously being left to die. Is he going to stay until Bucky actually freezes to death?

But he leaves. He leaves, and it isn’t until several hours later, when Bucky has started to strain at his cuffs to try and get closer to the fire that he figures out why the flames are there at all.

It starts with a long, thin noise. Then luminous reflections in the dark, there and gone so fast that Bucky thinks he must have imagined them the first few times. But they get bolder and closer, and he realizes with a spike of fear that there must be osmilli in this area—large-ish felines that hunt in packs, cautious but vicious. Maybe it was meant as a mercy, to draw them in with the heat, because they’ll definitely kill him faster than the cold will. They’re so close already, despite his attempts to scare them off, realizing that their prey can’t move properly. He’s starting to panic and he knows it’s a bad idea to show fear; that the osmilli will sense an impending kill and close faster, but he can’t help it. His hands are bound and his coat will offer almost no protection and it’s finally sunk in that his own people have left him here to _die_. He can feel the change coming over him when the first of the big cats slinks into his vision.

He thinks that the shaman meant for him to wait and give in to his fate, but Bucky has never been good at following orders.  
  
  



	6. Thaw

When Steve opens his eyes again, it’s to a face that’s both familiar and not, and eyes that shine silver-blue in the light. It makes his heart stutter in his chest, because this isn’t like the dreams he normally has, not like the ones he’s been having since he was seventeen and his best friend died, or the ones since he was nineteen and feeling detached from having ended his first romantic relationship.

 _“You’re in love with someone else,”_ Sharon had told him gently.

It had been news to him, and she had actually laughed and told him that it was just like him to not even know it himself. They’d parted amiably, but he’d expected to feel… sad, or betrayed, or _anything_ but the calm sense of acceptance he’d had. And that was when he’d realized that he was in love with a dead man, and he couldn’t even remember when it started.

In his dreams—no matter how they end, in tears of sadness or happiness—Bucky is handsome and smiling, eyes sparkling (until they close in death, falling away, trapped in the ice). His eyes now are cold gems regarding him with suspicion, and it’s a shock. Still, he’d know that gaze anywhere.

“…Bucky?” The words rasp out of his chest, painful and choked but recognizable nonetheless.

Bucky’s head jerks back, expression wary and guarded.

“No one has called me that in years,” the other man replies gruffly.

Steve’s limbs feel oddly stiff and pain shoots through his body when he tries to move, but he struggles to reach for his friend. He has to know that this is real.

“Stay down!” Bucky barks sharply. “I just fished you out of a river more than half-dead. You trying to finish the job?” A large hand reaches out and pins Steve back on the cushions, heaped high enough to keep him elevated. As soon as Bucky says it, Steve’s thoughts stop chasing the impossibility of Bucky’s presence and the last twenty-four hours come crashing back almost violently. It catches his breath hard enough that he chokes for a moment before erupting into painful coughs the next.

“Easy,” Bucky says gruffly. “Your lungs were full of water. Honestly, I’m surprised you survived at all, especially with no frostbite.” He helps Steve settle and tucks the blankets more firmly around the blond as though forbidding him to move. “So? What did you do?”

“Do?” Does anyone know he’s alive? Fished out of a _river_? Will Brock be looking for him? Will his team? Are they in danger?

“Do,” Bucky repeats. “You’ve been beaten within an inch of your life and dumped into a river. They’ve either done a terrible job of killing you or an over-enthusiastic one of banishing you. So? What did you do to be removed from the clans?” As he speaks, Bucky dips a ladle into a steaming broth over his fire and pours some out into a cup, coming back to hold it to Steve’s lips. He glares fiercely when Steve moves to hold it for himself.

“I was—” He doesn’t know why Bucky asked him a question if he’s going to shove a cup to his lips before he can answer. Steve shoots Bucky an irritated look over the lip of the cup, but the brunet remains impassive. “I was in the final stages of the gantlet, to be a Guardian,” he mutters when he comes up for air. Bucky quirks an eyebrow and sets the vessel to Steve’s lips before the blond can ask his next question. Steve gulps rapidly until Bucky pulls the broth away, afraid he’ll choke.

“You don’t remember me?” Steve asks quickly. When Bucky pauses, hand stilled in midair, Steve presses his advantage. “You have to, Buck, please. Please say you remember me.” He feels cold, colder than when he realizes that ice was breaking beneath him, colder than his first plunge into frigid water. He can see Bucky about to refuse, suspicion and incredulity still on his face. Steve can’t bear to hear that; can’t stand the thought that even if this is his Bucky, Steve himself will be a memory so distant as to be not worth remembering—it would break his heart. So he rushes on.

“You were born James Buchanan Barnes. All your friends call you Bucky, and you were raised on the _Shield_ , and when you were nine you fell and cracked your head and you have a scar—”

Bucky instantly raises his hand to his hairline, right where Steve knows the scar lies, silvered by time.

“—yes, there. You left to train as a shaman when you were thirteen and I was twelve, and I knew you’d go, I told you, didn’t I? But then they told me that—” His voice breaks; he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to think of that time, but he has to know. He turns pleading eyes on Bucky, hoping he’ll understand; hoping he’ll remember.

Bucky’s gone white as a sheet, pale even for his fair skin, stark against the dark of his hair. He reaches out slowly, hand steady but unsure, and brushes almost imperceptibly across a tuft of Steve’s hair in a mimicry of what he’d done when they were younger and Steve was ill in bed, craving human contact after days of being abed.

“…Stevie?”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Bucky Barnes has seen Steve Rogers cry exactly three times in his life: The first time was the first anniversary of his mother’s death, Steve alone and curled up around the rucksack he’d arrived with and a half-finished sketch of a waif of a woman with a determined chin and a soft smile. The second was when he took a beating hard enough to break his nose and his arm, crack a rib, and leave him black and blue for weeks, and Bucky always suspected those had been tears of anger more than anything else.

This is the third time, and he’s not sure what to do about it.

He’s not even sure he believes this is his Steve, that tiny spitfire he said goodbye to an eternity ago. But, no, those are his eyes and his nose and his lips and his chin, and even the same hands, even if they’re less bony than he remembers.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve gasps between shudders.

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky replies numbly. Steve’s tears take on a hysterical edge at that, and Bucky snaps out of his shock all of a sudden, and then he’s leaning over Steve, hugging him hard even though it has to be painful, and Steve tucks his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck and cries.

Steve falls asleep like that, at the end of his endurance, and Bucky finds a cloth and dampens it to clean Steve’s face of the sticky, salty tears. He gathers his courage in both hands until he feels brave enough to gently card his fingers through Steve’s hair, the same way he did when they were younger and Steve was in one kind of pain or another, to ease the frown from his face in his sleep. Just like then, Steve’s face loses its sad furrow and relaxes into something soft that makes Bucky’s heart clench in his chest.

He shakes himself out of his reverie soon enough. Now that he knows who he’s rescued, he feels restless. There are a million things he wants to say, but they’ll all have to wait until Steve is at least a little better. He pointlessly rearranges the ingredients on his shelf and finds a shirt he thinks will be large enough for Steve to wear. He’ll have to barter for more clothes, but at least he’ll be safely clothed until then.

Bucky wakes Steve at regular intervals to get some food and tea in him, and smooths balm over his cuts. Each time Bucky wakes him, Steve blinks at him confusedly for a few moments before attempting to reach out and touch him, only to recoil when his body protests. Bucky starts waking him with a hand against his forehead or cheek and a soft little, “Hey there.” Steve offers a shy smile in exchange every time, tamely accepting whatever Bucky offers in the way of food or medicine. It’s the most agreeable Bucky’s ever seen him, and he wonders if this is a new part of Steve’s personality or if it’s just the exhaustion talking. He’s not sure which one would make him feel better.

Two days later, Steve still can’t stay awake for more than two hours without falling asleep, but he still tries to walk around Bucky’s small home. Bucky bullies him back into bed, Steve giving in with poor grace and sulking like a child, and Bucky laughs because he realizes that things can’t have changed that much if Steve is still so ornery.

“They found out about you changing, didn’t they?” Steve asks one night. Steve is resting after putting himself through his paces, playing with a loop of yarn while Bucky darns clothes. “I bet that’s why they lied about the training accident.”

It’s uncannily close to the truth. “There was really an accident,” Bucky answers, not taking his eyes off his task. “I just… didn’t die.”

“And I’m glad you didn’t,” Steve says fiercely. When Bucky glances up to see his expression, Steve’s eyes flash dangerously, challenging him to say otherwise.

Bucky doesn’t rise to the challenge; he changes the subject instead. “And when did you have time to come up with theories?”

“I had to do _something_ while you refused to let me out of bed,” Steve grumbles. “And you haven’t told me I’m wrong. They didn’t want to admit that they’d try to kill a child.”

“Fine,” Bucky snaps. He throws the knitting away from himself violently, leaving it dangerously close to the fire. “There was an accident and almost everyone died. They found me hulking over another trainee’s brother and thought I’d killed him. Is that what you want to hear? That I watched a dozen people get torn apart by drakes and they staked me out to die because I’m a varkolak and I had blood on my hands and in my mouth and I hid it from them; they had no reason to trust me. Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to hear about how another shaman chained me to the ice and offered me an impossible choice? How I spent months in another skin because I couldn’t find my way out? How I can feel it itching under my skin even now? _Is that what you want?_ ”

Steve looks stricken for a single moment before steel creeps into his expression. It’s the same look he’s always had when he realizes that he has to face a hard truth. “Yes. I want to hear it because it happened to you. It’s part of who you are now, and I want to be part of that too. You were a _child_ , James Buchanan Barnes. No one had the right. They should have protected you— _I_ should have—” Steve shakes his head because this isn’t about him; it’s about Bucky. And then something seizes his attention. “Wait. You said they offered you a choice.”

“An impossible one,” Bucky corrects, words bitter in his mouth. “Join them or die on the ice.”

“You were already going to become a shaman,” Steve says cautiously.

“Not the shamans. _Hydra_ ,” Bucky spits out. “They hide behind a sign of a many-headed Serpent and claim to work toward the new dawn of mankind—”

Steve can feel himself go cold, and for a moment it’s like the ice giving way beneath his body again. “A many-headed Serpent? Like this?” He drags a splinter of wood from the fire with quick hands, stubbing it out on the hearth so he can draw on the plain stone floor. He has to burn the wood again a few times, and the sketch is crude, but there’s no mistaking it.

“How did you know the sign?”

“Wanda was right,” Steve breathes. “She was right, and if she was right about that then something must be wrong…”

“You’re not making sense! Slow down. What was Wanda wrong about?” 

“No, Wanda was _right_. She thought people might be disappearing if they knew… we’re not sure. Some kind of secret, maybe? Because something is wrong with the Shroud. She said you—you and Moira—knew about it, or tried to warn the council, or… I don’t know. And then you both disappeared.”

“Moira’s gone?” Bucky’s heart aches. They weren’t what he would call good friends, but they’d had each other’s backs. Not to mention that she was the most promising of them all. “What happened?”

“Wanda said she got sick, but then she locked herself away or something. When she died, she left Wanda a copy of that symbol inside a wolf statue.” Steve takes a breath; hesitates. “I’m sorry, Buck. Wanda said you all knew each other.”

Bucky nods, accepting the comfort. “Moira was always the clever one. Warned me not to go to the council.” He barks a bitter laugh, surprised to find a few tears in his eyes. “And a wolf statue. She knew.”

Steve nods absently, already trying to make a plan. Bucky, then Moira, almost a decade apart but from the same training ship. Hydra must have people in more positions than just shamans—healers, Guardians, probably even ship captains. But not everyone can be in on whatever this is, can they? Otherwise why eliminate people who suspect them? How wide is the network? And what is their goal? It isn’t until Bucky speaks that he realizes he’s been muttering his thoughts out loud.

“They want to fulfill the prophecy.”

“What?” Steve startles out of his reverie.

“They want to fulfill the prophecy,” Bucky repeats. “They told me.”

It fits with everything else—the wolf statue; the serpent logo; the deteriorating Shroud. “Why?”

“The best we can understand? They think it means they can kill the Serpent and bring back the seasons.”

“‘We’?”

Bucky takes a deep breath. Steve is already in this, he reminds himself. He deserves to know. It’s just that secrecy is a difficult habit to break. “There are a lot of us. Exiles, mostly, or outcast. People who have lost friends or family; people like… well, like me, who’ve been targeted directly. We keep track of the Shroud; share information when we can. We’re not supposed to exist, so we can’t do anything directly, but we think something has to happen soon. Best we can figure, the Shroud is too deteriorated to last another century without heavy intervention. A lot of shamans are saying less if it gains any momentum.”

Less than four generations. “Do _you_ think they can kill the Serpent?”

“I think the only thing keeping the Serpent in place is the Shroud. Even the toll of keeping it running hasn’t killed it, and the Shroud has been weakened, draining less energy. Maybe it won’t be as strong as when it was first subdued, but it won’t have to be if there aren’t enough shamans to do it again.”

“You don’t think there are enough shamans?”

“Not enough that would be ready in time, if we don’t expose this for what it is. And if the Shroud just collapses? It could burn out any shaman still in contact with it. There’s no way to tell how many people would be involved.”

Steve falls silent as he takes in this new information. “So then what are our choices?”

“‘Our’?” Bucky asks.

Steve breathes in deep and looks up. “Our,” he affirms. “We promised a long time ago, didn’t we? Whether or not you like it, I’m here ‘til the end of the line.”

Despite the desperate situation, Bucky smiles.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Steve looks at Bucky from across the map. It’s a large thing, sketched across several thin planks of wood, big enough to cover an entire table. It took weeks to get the most important people here, or to otherwise coordinate their remote presence. Farspeaking spells are difficult to execute without anyone else detecting the casting, but they’re possible. Even more possible, it seems, for (ex)Shaman Steven Strange, who, while not in charge of this operation, seems to be the most knowledgeable about the Shroud and spells in general. 

Strange finishes making a spidery mark signifying yet another weakness of the Shroud based on reports. Steve has been seeing it for a while, and while he’s no shaman, he suspects…

“There’s a pattern,” Steve declares even as the charcoal is passed to another shaman. Patterns are patterns after all, magical or not. All heads at the table swivel toward him—the map is still only a third filled with the most notable flaws. “There will be one here.” He places a pebble just over a mountain. “And here.” Another pebble. Bucky and Strange catch on quickly, flipping through reports or, in Strange’s case, asking rapid questions of their remote companions. Bucky meets his eyes and nods. More confident now, Steve takes the charcoal and makes a handful more smudges, freezing with his hand in midair when he sees it.

He can tell that Strange has seen it too, but perhaps because of his training (or just having a level head), he continues confirming each point. Most of them are there or else close, but even with the missing points, Steve gets a sinking feeling. The entire gathering is talking now, sticks of charcoal reaching out to confirm and add marks until Strange slams his hand on the map for silence. When he withdraws his hand, there is a slight burn-mark the shape of his palm in the exact spot Steve had been eyeing moments before. It draws every gaze. When Steve glances back up, looking for Bucky, he’s not there. A moment later, he can feel Bucky as a comforting presence by his side, bracing him with a mere brush of the shoulders. It’s amazing, how their bodies seem to remember each other even after so long apart. Steve leans in too, his mouth a thin line.

“I’m not a shaman, but I’m guessing that the wrong pressure there will have… repercussions?” Steve asks into the quiet.

“It’ll collapse,” Bucky says flatly. “And not prettily.”

“We’d have to do more research, but I suspect it’s the main anchor point,” Strange explains. “Can someone get me a bowl of water?”

It’s an odd request, but a Guardian gets up to fulfil it. While he’s gone, Strange sketches out a quick diagram, starting with a globe in which he places a pebble slightly off-center. He taps the pebble. “Pretend this is the Serpent.” Steve can tell that Bucky already knows what’s coming, as do many other shamans. Everyone else leans in so as not to miss a word.

“Saying that it’s bound by a single chain isn’t precisely accurate. It’s more like a collar that reaches to six anchor points around the world and keyed into the Shroud to feed it power.” He draws lines radiating from the pebble. “The distribution of power is spread as evenly as possible, but since the Serpent doesn’t actually reside in the center of the world, some points are closer than others—particularly the one directly above the Serpent. Destabilizing any single anchor point would take down the Shroud— _eventually_. The less power flowing to it, the slower the Shroud would fall. It’s even possible that enough shamans could buy time to fix the anchor.” Many of them shift uneasily. That kind of power comes at a high cost, and who knows what kind of damage would be caused in the meantime?

As the bowl of water is settled in front of him, Strange picks up the pebble. “The main anchor is directly above the Serpent. Because it receives the most power, it would also be the most difficult to sever. But by that same token, it would take the entire Shroud down most quickly. The whole net would essentially collapse in on itself suddenly. To be fair, since the drain would stop abruptly, it would also ensure the Serpent was the weakest it could possibly be. However, it would take power to destroy that point, and there is the power already in the Shroud to account for. It would need to go somewhere very quickly, and it would all originate from the location of the collapse while the rest of the other points go down more slowly.” He picks up several more pebbles. “Each of these is the magical backlash from a point.”

He drops the main point first, in the middle of the bowl and with some force. As soon is it starts to ripple, he drops the other pebbles around the edge of the bowl. “As soon as it starts, the power generated will try to find a way out. The crests are spikes in the power, but eventually all the magic needs to go _somewhere_. Shamans are a natural conduit for magic, so every shaman connected to the Shroud will take some of the burden. But any one of them who happens to be present when one of the larger ‘crests’ hits their area…”

 _Will burn out_ , he doesn’t say, but Steve can see from everyone’s faces that it’s understood.

“What happens if the central spell is disassembled?” Bucky asks into the silence. “The one holding the Serpent in place?”

“The backlash would be much less devastating,” someone else pipes in. “The collapse would be distributed equally.”

“But the Serpent would keep the bulk of its power,” a Guardian argues. “If we want to try to kill it, we’ll need every advantage we can get.”

“And killing half our shamans is supposed to be an advantage?”

The table quickly dissolves into argument.

“If we send out a message fast enough; ask everyone to disengage—”

“You’re assuming the Serpent can be killed at all—”

“Nothing is immortal!”

“Trying to destroy the main spell is suicide! We’d need to be practically on top of it—”

“We could wait. Get the word out, prepare everyone.”

“How do we know who to trust?”

“We have time!” Strange shouts over the din. “Nothing will be decided here and now. It’s unlikely that anything will happen tomorrow, and the Shroud is not yet critical. We can get more of us; more voices from the other anchor points; more data. We might even be able to fix the Shroud still. So calm down and let’s think rationally about this.”

They all decide to take a break, and Steve follows Bucky back to the tent they share.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Bucky murmurs.

“Me too,” Steve admits, going to sit next to Bucky on his bedroll. “Something doesn’t sit right, but I can’t put a finger on it.”

“Like the pressure that builds before a lightning-storm. I think we have less time than we want to believe, and I think that Strange knows it, too. I don’t like surprises, and I think we’re due for one.”

“Take my Bond,” Steve blurts out. As soon as he says it he wishes he’d waited for a better time, but it’s too late to take it back. He’s been thinking about it since Bucky pulled him from the ice and realizing that they still fit together even after all this time has only solidified his decision.

“What?” Bucky looks taken aback. Being capable of a Bond isn’t something necessary to become a Guardian, but it is a prized trait. It’s not even something every Guardian capable of chooses to do. The Bond allows a shaman to take energy from their Guardian as they see fit, even draining the Guardian to death if they wish. It requires absolute trust, but shamans and Guardians who have bonded have been among the most powerful and famous in the world; the source of tales both tragic and heroic.

“Take my Bond,” Steve repeats. He straightens his back; looks Bucky in the eye. “I always wanted you to have it, ever since I found out I was capable of making one. It’ll be strong between us; I know it will. And if— _when_ —something happens, you’ll need every advantage you can get.”

“I’m a varkolak,” Bucky snaps. “We don’t know what that’ll do to a Bond. And we hardly know each other anymore. I’m not the same boy you grew up with.”

“You’re still a person and a shaman,” Steve parries. He’s learned that Bucky’s new defense is anger, and he won’t let it intimidate him. He feels himself sink into calm determination and wonders if this is what Bucky felt like all those years ago, when Steve was the one bursting with anger and Bucky had been the voice of reason. “And I know enough. I know you haven’t changed as much as you think. I know you still sing when you think no one can hear you. I know you still give your food away if someone looks like they might go hungry—don’t think I didn’t notice how you portioned your food while I was recovering. I know you’re still kind, even when you use anger to hide it. I know you’ll still do the hard things for the people in your heart, even if no one else will stand with you. I know you’re scared of yourself.” Bucky flinches, and Steve presses his advantage. “Yes, Bucky, I know that you’re your own monster, and I also know that I have _never_ thought that about you, no matter how you tried to convince me. Man or wolf, _I know you_. And I think you still know me, too.”

Bucky won’t look him in the eye now, the set of his shoulders tense and uncertain.

“Accept my Bond,” Steve presses gently. “Let me support you the way you have me. Let me be your shield. Let me stand by you until the end of the line.”

Steve lets Bucky think it over, allowing the silence to stretch on. Offering feels right, but a Bond can’t be forced. Bucky has to agree to it freely. It feels like an eternity before Bucky moves again.

“If we do this,” he rasps. “If we do this, you have to promise to look out for your own safety. I know _you_ , Steve. You’re brave but reckless with yourself in a way you’re not with anyone else. I mean, look at what you’re offering now.” He gives a humorless laugh. “You can’t let anyone take from you like that—not even me. Promise me.”

When he raises his gaze to meet Steve’s, his eyes are red with unshed tears and Steve knows that Bucky has made his choice. The hard one, like Steve knew he would.

“I promise.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“I will treat your vows as my vows; your honor as my honor; your life as my life.” Bucky’s voice is steady as he recites the traditional vows. No one would ever guess he’d argued against this decision only days before.

“I will be your shield and your sword; I will stand beside you in all battles to come. In this, I give you my Bond.” Steve clenches his fist so blood wells quickly to the surface when he draws the knife across. Bucky finishes doing the same, and they clasp forearms together, letting the blood mingle and drip into the snow. He can feel the magic thread through him, a ghostly feeling that presses on his senses for a moment, as though the world is staring at them both.

And then it’s gone, and they’re bound.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit on the story is welcomed so long as it's gentle. We both love kudos, comments, and questions, so please leave them if you feel so inclined! Even a single word or emoji will be treasured like the precious that it is.
> 
> Feel free to ask me stuff on Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/). I ended up with a bunch of worldbuilding and background that didn't belong or fit in the fic, so hit me up if you want boring details and headcanons.
> 
> Go stare in wonder at [@madara-nycteris](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com/), whose attention to detail is nothing short of amazing.


	7. Hydra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giant shoutout to [seapigeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seapigeon/pseuds/seapigeon), who took a break from her lovely beach trip to help calm me down and get a few last-minute edits done. You're a saint.
> 
> And as always, to my beta [Squeaky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky) who keeps helping my terribly behind butt even when she's knee-deep in family celebrations. I literally couldn't do this without you.
> 
> Also to the RBB mods, who hooked me up with a last-minute call to get this chapter out on time. Mostly. Mostly on time (but that part isn't their fault).

Brock doesn’t dislike Shaman Pierce, precisely. Certainly, the man is intelligent and cunning and does good work. He was the one to recruit Brock to the cause after all and when Brock was younger that aloof-but-knowing demeanor seemed so worldly. But as an adult, there’s just something about the way Pierce carries himself, like he knows something no one else does, that sometimes makes Brock wonder if the shaman isn’t a little _too_ devoted. Makes him wonder if Pierce hasn’t lost track of what’s best for their people and working towards what’s best for _Hydra_. But someone needs to think the ‘big thoughts,’ as Shaman Pierce often points out, and those people are the ones who lead Hydra.

Hydra has been nurturing the prophecy for a little over two hundred years with only minimal detection. The world is cruel and rotting away underneath them all—forced to separate families that might never see each other again. Training for violence at a young age and fully expecting to die in service to clan and people no matter what the cause. Animals adapted and even mutated to levels previously unheard of. Brock has read the old histories of the world beyond the Shroud, and he’s longed for it all his life. None of the clans will admit it, but something needs to change. They need to take back the place that is their birthright and stop hiding in darkness and shadows because of a beast. If that means a little deception or spilled blood, well, that’s the price of freedom. No one ever won a battle by sitting and watching the world go by. And it’s nice to feel like part of something bigger than himself; to know he’ll be helping to make a lasting impact on the world.

He’d prefer to do it without having to put up with a slightly megalomaniacal and haughty shaman, but… beggars and choosers and all that. So, when Pierce calls him, he answers like a good soldier and arrives promptly at his door.

“You asked for me, sir?”

“Rumlow,” Pierce greets. “Please, sit down.”

Brock shifts on his feet. He had to leave arms practice to come here, and his watch is coming up soon. “I have to report to fore deck soon, sir.”

“Then I won’t keep you long,” Pierce says easily. “I just wanted a report on the crew, particularly on the new shaman.”

Pierce’s interest in Shaman Wanda unsettles Brock. It’s not that he doesn’t think the girl is a threat—anyone can be a threat, after all, and she’s quite powerful from what he understands. It’s just that… well, she’s still a girl. A child, mostly, not even on her first assignment alone and no Guardian at her back. She was friends with Rogers, though, which has made her an automatic target as far as Hydra is concerned. Brock was more than willing to get rid of the would-be Guardian. Steve was a rabble-rouser and as stubborn as a dog with a bone if he got an idea in his head, after all. As soon as he started asking the wrong kinds of questions, Brock knew Steve would have to go. But Wanda is a different story. She had been friends with Steve, while he was still alive, and though it’s possible she can’t be turned to their cause, he doubts anyone conscionable would agree to any reason to kill a child. There is a thin line, he reflects, between faith and fanaticism. While he’s willing to get his hands dirty so that others won’t, Shaman Wanda feels more of a personal obsession to Pierce, perhaps as a professional rival or a likely successor. But Brock isn’t sure that Wanda would have the stomach for the kinds of choice Hydra makes on a daily basis, and Pierce is never kind to those who have been refused after being offered entry into the ranks of Hydra.

“Shaman Wanda has stopped spending so much time with Rogers’ old team. She’s still very insular, but everyone assumes she’s shy and are allowing her to take things at her own pace. Captain Fury has altered the path of the ship by a league or so to avoid new cracks in the terrain, but other than asking for another re-mapping, he has expressed no new concerns. Those he does have however, we think he plans to tell the council at the next summit.”

“He always was too canny for his own good,” Pierce muses. “Keep an eye on Shaman Maximoff. Try to discourage others in the ship from talking to her much. If nothing else, it might drive her away from them and into our hands, and that would be to our benefit, wouldn’t it? It would be a waste of Talent if she were to try and stand against us.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Alexander knows that the Shroud was never built to last this long, but only a few people know it. Fewer now, the numbers dwindling ever since Hydra got a foothold and started managing things. The early dissenters had wanted to tell everyone, but what good would that have done? It would have created mass panic, throwing the clans into chaos. They would lose time and resources needed to come up with a better solution. And Hydra _does_ have a better solution.

The prophecy says the Shroud will end, but it doesn’t specify how, and Alexander has never believed in waiting for good fortune to simply fall into one’s lap. Sometimes, steps need to be taken to ensure success; it mentions fighting the Serpent, but it doesn’t say what happens after. What it _does_ promise is a new world, and Hydra is committed to being the ones who lead it. And to lead it on their terms, when _they_ are ready. So many are Hydra now that there will be enough shamans to look after humanity after the changes start, and then Hydra can lead their people into a new future. One of warmth and sunlight. 

Controlled chaos is the way Pierce likes to think. It will be a big change and will certainly alarm many people, but Hydra will be there to provide a steady presence through the chaos. Those left will not only survive, but be able to flourish. And that is a goal worth devoting one’s life to: the future. Pierce just feels lucky that he’ll get to see it in his lifetime.

He’s starting to think that someone out there is catching on, though. Several someones, actually, and that could be dangerous. Hydra hasn’t been working for hundreds of years to be brought short by a group of vigilantes. Luckily, their timeline has a little flexibility to it. It’s inconvenient to enact the plan sooner, but failure isn’t an option. Dozens of heads of Hydra have come before him and dozens more will come after. Pierce won’t allow himself to be the one who lets them all down.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Wanda sits alone in her room. They’d decided as a group that she would be safer if she stopped letting people see her with Steve’s friends. She agreed, but it makes for a lonely existence. She’s still mourning. For her brother, for Bucky, for Moira, and now for Steve. But if her loneliness means she won’t have to mourn the others too, she’ll stay away.

She had to swoop in quickly to sort through Steve’s belongings before Pierce could get them, but she needn’t have bothered. He hadn’t been so stupid as to keep anything incriminating on him. Just a few precious keepsakes—pictures mostly. She’d found the crystal Bucky had given him, and it made her sad to hold it. It had lit for Bucky and then for Steve, but it might never light again. She slips it into its case and then her pocket, carrying it to remind her of the magnitude of what they’re faced with and the people who put themselves between her and danger. Soon it will be time for her to take that role. They view her as a child, but she’s lived through more than her share of loss. She knows what sacrifice looks like. Sacrifice and slaughter and needless death and lives given willingly. She knows she’s ready.

Shaman T’Challa had been amazingly calm about the whole thing when she’d approached him after the disastrous gantlet.

“Many other clans find Panther aloof, but we just value our privacy,” he assured her. “Some of us have noticed this disturbing trend, but we’ve never seen this symbol. I’ll make sure we look for others.”

“Be discreet,” Natasha had warned him sharply.

“Discretion is what we’re known for,” he assured her. “Am I the first you have approached with this?”

He’d introduced them to some of the ‘network’ he belonged to that night. They had to sneak out, Natasha and T’Challa’s Guardian, Okoye, taking rearguard and point respectively. Wanda had been in awe of their skill, but she’d been even more amazed at the people who melted from the darkest patches of the deep woods the Panther Clan led them to.

“Did you think the people on the ice-ships were the only ones in the world?” Okoye drawled. “Living on the fringes of civilization is full of hardship, but there are entire societies of those who have been outcast or self-exiled or simply in hiding. There are always those who wish for a different life, even if it is full of difficulty.”

To be perfectly honest, Wanda had never thought about it, but Natasha looks like she expected this much. It makes Wanda wonder if the scout knows more than she lets on.

“Your allies aren’t only on the ice-ships, shaman,” a woman adds. “Sometimes we get those who have crossed the wrong people, no matter the rank. But some of them are shamans, and what they have most in common is that they stay true to their vows… and they’ve all been sent to the ice by a Serpent with three heads. Even without our shamans’ concerns, out here we can see what the damage to the Shroud does. The ice-ships on their paths can’t see everything, even with all the scouts. Entire swaths of land have been melted and re-frozen; populations of the larger herd animals are dwindling or changing migration patterns they’ve held for a hundred years or more. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that something is wrong.”

“For now, just observe,” T’Challa told her. “And be careful. You’re young, but that won’t stop them, and it pays to be paranoid when your enemy can hide in plain sight.”

She’s starting to suspect Pierce. There isn’t anything concrete to work with yet, but she’s not fond of the way he expresses admiration of her Talent, as though it’s something to be coveted and controlled. Just because she has a bad feeling, though, doesn’t mean anything. Except… last time she had a ‘bad feeling,’ Bucky died. Then again, she’d need to get her suspicions to someone else to make a difference, and she doesn’t trust anyone except Steve’s old unit. But they’re positive that every one of them is under observation.

Wanda is saved when she hears of the next ship that will be running alongside their route. The _Lily’s Heart_ houses a young shaman of the Panther clan, Shuri, who is on her first solo assignment despite her age. T’Challa is her older brother, so Wanda is certain she can be trusted.

When she meets Shuri, she’s thrown for a loop. Based on T’Challa, she’d expected someone with gravitas. T’Challa is serious in a way Wanda associates with many shamans, dry of wit and always thinking ahead. Shuri, on the other hand…

“You need to smile more, girl!” Shuri good-naturedly smacks Wanda on the shoulder, already loosening the dark scarf she wears around the bottom of her face to protect it from the cold. “I can see why my brother likes you. Both of you look like you’re always thinking deep thoughts, but I see right through that. You’re just wondering if you have to eat whitefish for dinner again, aren’t you? Well, Panther Clan doesn’t skimp on our guests, so you don’t have to worry. Now, where is this head shaman of yours?”

“Shaman Pierce should be here any moment,” Wanda manages.

“Shaman, please at least _pretend_ you have dignity when you meet Shaman Pierce,” Shuri’s Guardian says with a long-suffering sigh. She is, apparently, used to Shuri’s bombastic personality.

“Ayo, don’t worry so much. I won’t shame our clan.” At her Guardian’s skeptical look, Shuri winks cheekily. “And my brother has promised me all the new materials on my list in exchange for my good behavior. But the joke is on him, because I would have done it for free. Shaman Pierce has a… reputation.”

“I’d love to visit your ship after we meet with Shaman Pierce,” Wanda interjects quickly. Guardian Ayo looks like she’s gearing for an argument and Wanda wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. She’ll feel safer on the other ship, at least for a little while. “I don’t have a Guardian yet, but I’m sure I can find an escort.”

“You’ll be safe aboard our ship, shaman,” Ayo protests, but Shuri glares the other woman into silence.

“I’m sure Wanda will feel more comfortable among strangers if she has someone she knows with her. My brother wanted me to see someone named Clint. I was told he took a blow to the head…?”

Wanda has to work quickly to muffle a bark of laughter. “I’m pretty sure he was joking.” She manages to keep a straight face—barely. “But I’m sure Clint would be excited to see the _Lily’s Heart_. I will ask for permission.” Shuri smiles conspiratorially and Wanda realizes that the younger girl has both put her at ease and given her an excuse to bring an ally in one fell swoop. Is T’Challa’s entire family this intelligent? It’s both an impressive and frightening thought. Still smiling, she beckons them both forward. “The conference room is this way.”

Outside the door, they’re all met by Guardian Rumlow. He was the last person to see Steve alive, and while she doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, she suspects Brock knows more than he says about what happened during the gantlet. Now he’s one of Shaman Pierce’s Guardians, although Pierce has enough that they can and do take regular rotations of duty aboard the ship. He’s always curt but respectful, and this is no exception. He bows them all in through the door and follows them in, taking up his station there. Despite all her impudence mere minutes ago, Ayo turns to do the same as soon as she’s inside, her face an expressionless mask. Shuri, too, now radiates austerity, taking a seat with perfect poise as soon as Pierce gestures in welcome.

“I see that you’ve already met Shaman Wanda,” Pierce greets. “I thought it might be best if you met with someone closer to your own age. I’m afraid I’m not as young or handsome as I once was.”

“Age becomes you,” Shuri replies lightly. “And you’re fishing for compliments about your looks, shaman. I was told to expect someone generous and wise—no one mentioned vanity.”

That draws a chuckle from the older man. “And I wasn’t told to expect flattery. What a pleasant surprise for us both.”

“I have another pleasant surprise for you.” Shuri seizes the opportunity to move on to her business. “I have here the new surveys from our last route, including map adjustments to the east. Activity in the Shroud has been minimal; we’ve decided to wait for the next summit to enact any major workings, as discussed.”

“Nothing else of note?” Pierce asks when it becomes apparent that Shuri is done for now.

“Well, since you asked.” She digs around in her bag again, drawing out a dark glass bottle of spirits. “From my brother with his kindest regards. He said to thank you for your advice earlier in the year, as it’s been invaluable going forward.”

Pierce takes the bottle, looking pleased. “His thanks would have been enough, but I won’t turn down a good drink either. I’m glad I could help. You can come to me any time you want advice or another opinion—both of you. I may as well put my experience to good use. I won’t be alive forever, and the future is for the younger generations. I’ll do everything I can to ensure the brightest future for you all.” The warmth on his face is genuine, but something about the way he says it makes Wanda pay attention, as though there are words she can’t quite hear.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“What advice did he give your brother?” Wanda asks when they’re safely aboard the _Lily’s Heart_. Clint and Ayo are having a quiet argument about the merits of shortbows versus crossbows, but Wanda can tell they’re both listening.

“Fixing a spell to use on the Shroud.” Shuri finds a chair to lounge in, fishing some candy out of her pockets. “It did need to be fixed, but we sent it to him as a test. The solution he sent back would have fixed the problem but stopped working as soon as any shaman disengaged. Clever, because anyone who checked it would sort of turn it back on, making it look like it was working the entire time. Either his hubris is staggering or he doesn’t care much if he’s caught.”

“Only one of those situations scares me,” Wanda murmurs.

“Hubris we can work with,” Clint agrees. The way he glares at Ayo suggests that their discussion isn’t over, but he comes to join the two shamans anyway. “The last time Scott spoke with his contact, they mentioned a meeting of their own. They think the Shroud is in more danger than we thought initially. From what I understand, they’re trying to find a solution before the whole thing comes down. Something about burning out shamans?”

Shuri goes ashy-pale under her dark skin. Wanda, too, can feel the blood drain from her face.

“I mean, it sounds bad.” Clint looks around at them, bewildered. Ayo looks like she wants to stab someone. “I take it that it’s _really_ bad.”

“Without details, there’s no way to know,” Wanda explains shakily. “But burning out your Talent never ends well. The best possible outcome is that you never work magic again. The worst…”

“Death?” Clint guesses.

“Worse.” Ayo moves to hover closer to Shuri as though she can protect her charge from such a fate just by being there. “It will turn the shaman into a shell of a human. Talent gone, mind deranged, body in constant pain of trying to right itself with no way to do so. Death is preferable.”

“It doesn’t happen often.” Shuri recovers from her shock quickly, mouth set into a thin line of determination. “Mostly when someone loses control of a large spell, and even then only if the power is greater than what they can hold, or if the spell won’t stop draining them of power until there is nothing left to give. Did your friend’s contact say when more information will come?”

Clint shrugs helplessly. “Not that I know of. They only had time for a brief meeting, but he got the sense that they were waiting for more information from inside the clans.”

“Then my brother will know more soon.” Shuri looks disgruntled that there isn’t more to be had, but she settles back into her seat anyway. “In the meantime, the best we can do is trade intelligence amongst ourselves. So, Wanda, tell me about our Shaman Pierce.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“We’ll have to move sooner than expected,” Pierce growls. “Damn.”

The table full of Hydra members, each meeting via mirror, murmur amongst themselves. “Activity in the southern sectors is picking up,” one of their scouts reminds them all. “We knew that there were exiles living out there, but we can’t afford to flush them all out without revealing ourselves.”

“Surely no one will back mere criminals,” someone protests.

“No, but there are children among them. Even one witness will be too many, and there have been more ‘accidents’ than normal as of late.”

“It will take more power than anticipated, but the Shroud _is_ in a position to alter even now,” Shaman Ophelia declares. “Drastic, but it’s better than losing our window of opportunity. The more eyes on us, the harder it will be. We should start sending word out now, and act by this year’s summit.”

“More power?” someone echoes. “That’s an understatement! What you’re talking about could leave us too crippled to fight the Serpent by the time the Shroud comes down!”

Pierce already sees where this is going, so he’s not surprised with Ophelia smiles, viper-sweet. “It’s true that it would drain many of us… _or_ it could simply kill _some_ of us and leave the others free to handle the bigger threat. It’s a simple thing to leave contact with the Shroud at our signal. It would happen so quickly that no one else would be the wiser.”

There’s a moment of silence while the others contemplate this proposition.

“What timeline would you be looking at?”

“I’ll leave that to Alex.”

“Call me sentimental, but the summit seems fitting,” Pierce muses. “It’s close enough to the center of the Shroud to get there quickly, and there will be many of us in attendance—enough to take the Serpent, especially after we gather the remaining power from the remnants of the Shroud.”

“The third day should suffice,” someone else declares. “It gives the stragglers enough time to come in, and for us to set the groundwork for the localized spells.”

“Then we’re agreed?” Pierce waits for the murmurs of assent before nodding decisively. “You all know your roles.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Then we’re agreed: we’ll amass as many people as we can by the next summit and work on a solution then.”

Everyone around the table nods and disperses, many of them to send messengers as far and quickly as they can. Steve follows Bucky back to their cutter, where they make haste to go back to the village Bucky lives in now.

“I have something for you,” Bucky calls back over the wind. “It’s at home.” He feels a little thrill at being about to say ‘home’ and see Steve’s face light up at the prospect. He’s realized over the past few months that the place he’d settled in never quite felt like a true home until Steve filled the space, sliding into Bucky’s life with an ease that surprised them both.

“And then did you have time to arrange a surprise?” Steve laughs.

“I don’t know. When do you find time to practice the Bond?”

“I don’t need to practice. It’s easy with you,” Steve says with quiet sincerity. Bucky shifts away from Steve’s searching gaze. The other man has these little ways of making his feelings known, and once upon a time Bucky would have done the same. In another lifetime, maybe, they’d be lovers by now. A life where Bucky wasn’t a varkolak; one where there was no bounty on their heads or bitterness in Bucky’s heart. But this is the hand they’ve been dealt, and Bucky already regrets agreeing to the Bond. It only shares energy and latent Talent, but the closeness needed to access it gives him some sense of Steve. Between that and the sheer trust involved, he’s hard-pressed to keep his feelings to himself when he already knows the joyful welcome he’d be offered if he only said something. But he feels selfish enough, being glad of something as horrible as someone trying to murder Steve just because it merged their paths again. It’s just that, based on the way Steve looks at him, he doesn’t think Steve would find it selfish at all. The dumb punk never did know what was in his best self-interest.

“You’re a sap,” Bucky growls instead. It feels like forever until they’ve docked and furled the sails, and he has to resist the temptation to grab Steve by the hand to drag him back home, but they make it.

“You want me to close my eyes?” Steve jokes as soon as the door is closed.

“Don’t be an idiot. Here.” Bucky grabs the covered object from the corner and shoves it into Steve’s hands. The shape is unmistakable, but Steve looks curious nonetheless. Pulling off the cloth covering, his eyes widen.

“A shield?” He turns it around in his hands, testing the weight. “It’s so light.”

“It’s named Spellbreaker. The metal is rare and stores magic. With your capacity for a Bond, you should be able to use it better than most.” He watches as Steve traces the designs etched into the face of the shield; a star surrounded by concentric circles, each one made of small, scrolling runes. The arm straps are tough leather and, to Bucky’s relief, fit Steve perfectly.

“And this.” He didn’t bother covering this one, and instead holds out the longsword in its scabbard, hilt to Steve’s right. The other man takes it with reverence, eyes drinking in the gold and silver details; the blue gem that glows just at the cross-guard. He doesn’t miss how it matches the swords Bucky carries in potentially hostile territory, even if the style itself is different. Bucky’s weapons are meant for quick slices, there and gone again in an instant. Steve’s is made for heavy blows, designed to suit his hard fighting style and stubborn personality.

“It’s beautiful.” He pulls it out of the scabbard about an inch or so, just enough to see the gleam of the blade.

“Tell it to light your way,” Bucky prompts.

“Light my way,” Steve repeats obediently. Immediately, the crystal blazes to life, casting a gentle but strong glow around them. Steve’s eyes light up as well, and he gazes at Bucky wonderingly. 

Bucky’s face heats under Steve’s admiration. He clears his throat. “Extinguish.”

“Extinguish,” Steve echoes, and the light abruptly dies. He smiles, still obviously delighted. His fingers tracing the stone again. “You know, I kept your light stone. Wanda gave it to me after you…”

And odd, fluttery feeling erupts in Bucky’s chest. “That was a trinket. Nothing, really.”

“It was all I had. It was everything. I figured out how to make it light up, you know? And you call _me_ sentimental.”

Bucky can still remember the little piece of crystal—it was the first thing he ever made. “I was going to give it to you,” he hears himself say. “I made it for you as a gift. I remember that I wanted you to be proud of me.”

Steve’s hand lands warm and reassuring on the back of Bucky’s neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touch. “I’ve always been proud of you. You’re the best man I know.”

“I hope you’ll still think that after tonight,” Bucky mutters. Steve pulls back to look at him questioningly. Bucky takes a deep, steadying breath and opens his mouth:

“I think we need to free the Serpent.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit on the story is welcomed so long as it's gentle. We both love kudos, comments, and questions, so please leave them if you feel so inclined! Even a single word or emoji will be treasured like the precious that it is.
> 
> Feel free to ask me stuff on Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/). I ended up with a bunch of worldbuilding and background that didn't belong or fit in the fic, so hit me up if you want boring details and headcanons.
> 
> Go stare in wonder at [@madara-nycteris](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com/), whose attention to detail is nothing short of amazing.


	8. Serpent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image embedded in this chapter! GO STARE IN AWE AND WONDER.

“It will work,” Bucky argues. He gestures angrily to the diagram scratched into the ground.

“ _Theoretically_ ,” someone else shouts. “And what will we do after you’ve freed it? You’re no better than Hydra!”

By his side, Steve bristles angrily, but Bucky reaches back to put a hand on his arm and quiet him. “We still have the spells to renew the chain and reinstate the Shroud. Whole this time. Complete. It’s true that we’ll need many shamans to do it, but—”

The rising tide of angry voices drowns out the rest of Bucky’s statement. He waits a moment, hoping it will die down, but when it doesn’t he looks helplessly at Strange, who’s still staring contemplatively at the diagram at their feet. He catches Bucky’s eye and gives him a sympathetic grimace before putting two fingers in his mouth and letting out a sharp whistle.

“I think we can all agree that it has merits… as a contingency plan. Cutting off power to the Shroud instead of overloading it would spare more of us, although the Serpent would be freed either way. And it’s true that we still have the original spells, so reinstatement is possible.”

Murmuring among the less formally trained shamans rumbles through the crowd.

Strange crosses his arms over his chest, catching people’s eyes one by one. “In all cases, we will need to lay the new spell for the Shroud. Merging it with the existing net will take time, but it _can_ be done. In the meantime, we need more eyes and ears in Hydra’s ranks—saboteurs that can buy us the time we need.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Our sources from within the insurgents say they’ve amassed already.” Shaman Ophelia strides in, flanked on either side by her twin Guardians, their faces covered by masks as always. She’s a person who believes in flair and intimidations—a tactic Pierce never found much use for.

“Not even a greeting?” he asks mildly. The delicate replica of the Shroud has already begun to shimmer with the network of magic running through it, anchored at every point by a colorful stone. Ophelia brings with her a small peridot that houses within it the energy of the western anchor, bypassing Pierce completely to nestle it in its place. Holding her hand out, she accepts still more stones from her Guardians, filling in for their missing allies. When complete, the model will act as a focus for the spell that will finally set them all free.

“Aside from milling about like puppies, what else have your sources gleaned?” Pierce drawls.

“They’re looking to repair it, but they have no plan yet.” Ophelia barely pauses when the other heads of Hydra filter in. “But they _are_ close by, cloaked in a clearing somehow.”

“Brock,” Pierce barks suddenly. The man in question steps forward. “You lost track of Shaman Wanda, did you not?”

Uncertain of where this is going, Brock nods, expression stoic.

“Would you say that it’s possible insurgents have captured her? She has no Guardian of her own, after all, and the Panther Clan has always been known for their radical ideas.”

Brock nods again slowly. “You know, sir, I do think I saw her being led away from a meeting by a man I did not recognize. In fact, Scout Wilson was with them and he is known to have a problem with authority.”

“A shame, as she is one of our most promising new shamans.” Pierce clicks his tongue between his teeth. “We may need to make a precautionary announcement. There could be hostiles in the area.”

“And should I send out search parties, sir?”

“An excellent idea, Guardian Rumlow. Let’s see to this as quickly as possible. Every minute counts.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The shock that travels through the cloak around their assembly rings like a bell. It reverberates through their bones and Talent alike, leaving mayhem in its wake. And impossibly, even though it should have held, it starts to dissolve.

A single point at first, and several shamans rush to hold it, diagrams lighting the air as they project from the strongest glow-lamps they can find. Steve grabs Bucky to stop him from doing the same, pointing instead to the masses they can now see sweeping towards them. There is only one explanation for this.

“Hydra,” Bucky hisses.

“How would they know?” Steve trots to keep up with Bucky before he hits an all-out sprint, searching for Strange.

“Spies; it has to be. The cloak should have taken more damage before yielding. There has to be someone inside. They’re coming.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Drawing the attention of the summit to a space blank in all scrying methods had been an easy task, but Brock hadn’t expected prying the insurgents out of their shell to be more difficult. Instead, the barrier collapsed before the clans’ shamans had even finished breaking it, revealing loose ranks of outsiders in varying garb. Brock squints as the point of blazing blue light gives way to the figure of a man standing alone in the field between them. At his side, Shaman Pierce straightens and strides forward, not to be intimidated by a stranger with a sword. Rumlow flanks him as is his right, eyes widening when he realizes who stands before them.

“Rogers. You’re alive?”

Steve sheaths his sword and gives the smallest bow of respect. “I’m here to ask you to withdraw.”

“Withdraw from what? Your people are the ones about to stage an attack on us. On the Shroud,” Pierce scoffs. He makes sure to pitch his voice loud enough for the closest among them to hear, and Brock is willing to bet that the shaman has laid speaking spells just for this occasion.

“ _Those_ are my people,” Steve grits out, gesturing to those gathered behind Pierce and Brock. “Every clan, every outcast, they are _all_ my people. I am a Guardian sworn to serve, and I’ll do that until my last breath. But everyone deserves to know the truth about you. About _Hydra_! How you’ve been subverting the Shroud for hundreds of years now, because you want to bring it down!.”

“You’re spouting nonsense, Rogers,” Pierce tries condescendingly. “You always were spoiling for a fight.”

“Am I?” Brock can hear the odd echo in Steve’s voice that says a speaking spell is working for him, too. “Then why is it harder to mend the Shroud with every passing year? Why does the landscape change so drastically now, of all times, when it’s been steady for more than a millennium? Why has the death toll for shamans and Guardians climbed so high?”

“You see conspiracies where there are none!” Pierce shouts.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, all eyes are pulled away from him and Pierce to a man walking into the blue light thrown by Steve’s sword. A white wolfskin is fixed above his face and a golden collar rests around his neck. “Hydra, cousin of the Serpent,” he declares. He shoves his hood back and pulls back long brown hair to reveal a profile that’s painfully familiar. “I am James Buchanan Barnes, and I was _fifteen_ when I was left to die in the cold because I refused to join Hydra’s cause. They’re in our homes, acting as our shamans and our warriors and our friends! As the people meant to protect us, yet they’ll tear the world down just to remake it in their image. They are trying to free the Serpent to kill us all!” He turned to Pierce, his eyes glowing in the blue light. “Just try to deny that you are trying to free the Serpent. _Try to deny it!_ ”

“We want to free it so we can kill it. Would that be such a bad thing?” Pierce holds his hands out disarmingly. “With no Serpent we wouldn’t need the Shroud. We could live free as before. As the prophecy says. Isn’t that what we all want, as human beings? Freedom? Safety?”

“Freedom?” Steve echoes incredulously. “Safety? How many trainees are in contact with the Shroud even as we speak? How many shamans? How many of our people will die just because Hydra believes it has the only ‘right’ way?”

“This is ridiculous,” Pierce sneers. “There’s work to be done!”

Brock turns to give Pierce a suspicious glare. “You told them to watch the Shroud,” he says. “Our people.” 

“Not now,” Pierce hisses.

“ _You told them to watch the Shroud!_ ” Brock roars. “In case of interference! _Our_ people! How many of them know you’re sacrificing them?”

“This isn’t the time. Don’t listen to this drivel. Do you even know who these people are? Heretics—”

“You son of a bitch; you’ve killed _children_ —” Bucky lunges forward, teeth bared in a snarl. Pierce lights his hands in battlefire, red as blood. “You weren’t a child; you’re a _demon_ —"

Brock’s eyes go wide as he realizes Pierce intends to finish his job—intends to kill Bucky as the child he _had been_ in a horrible, delayed execution. He pushes Pierce’s arm away, trying to foil his aim, but the shaman is canny and compensates as he staggers, arching his shot. Where it’s headed is all too clear. Steve desperately extends his arm to intercept the spell, but even as part of it shatters against his shield, the rest of it streams around the edge. It hits its target, and Bucky falls to the ground screaming in agony even as Steve reaches for him in vain.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Steve’s hands close on the edge of Bucky’s cloak as chaos erupts around them.

At first Steve believes it’s the roaring in his ears—adrenaline and fear. But then he sees it: A single beam of searingly bright light, and that can only mean one thing:

“Too late.” Pierce smiles beatifically and drops a single gem on the ground. Clear and blue and shot with faults, Rumlow and Steve watch in horror as it cracks, chips flaking off. He can hear people screaming for help; see shamans fall to the ground in agony and magic venting like waves of heat into the sky.

“It’s the central anchor.” Bucky’s voice comes rough and gravelly from where he’s fallen, still covered in his cloak. “Strange, cut it. Cut it _now_!”

The ground beneath them all trembles, adding to the mayhem as the surge of magic washes away. Light begins to fade in, not in spears and streams as before, but gently, lifting the midnight colors as it goes. And then the clearing erupts, and the screaming starts in earnest.

Nothing could ever have prepared Steve for what he faces now. Whatever pictures or etching or carvings their people have ever made come close to the horror of the Serpent wresting its way free of the ice. It thrashes, throwing chunks of ice the size of cutters into the air, forcing the still-reeling shamans to throw up hasty shields, and Guardians to run and drag their charges to safety. Steve settles his grip on his shield and rams it into Pierce’s face, viciously glad when he feels it crack bone. The other man drops, and Rumlow moves quickly, yanking off his sword belt to lash Pierce’s hands together.

Steve looks to the distance where water churns and a sleek emerald form roils. The others will be there, trying to subdue the Serpent to enact the second part of the spell— _Bucky’s_ spell. It’s not a fight he wants, but it’s a fight he has to win. He kneels long enough to press a hasty kiss to the side of Bucky’s face, taking in his scent and the chapped roughness of his skin and feeling for the strength of their Bond together, pulsing with reassuring life. It’s not the kiss he would have wanted under better circumstances, but he can’t take the risk of never having tried.

“You can hit me for that later,” he whispers as Bucky makes a weak grab for him. Standing, he catches Rumlow’s shoulder roughly and shoves him in Bucky’s direction. “Don’t let them out of your sight. Either of them.” He hates it; hates that he needs to leave Bucky under the eye of someone so dangerous, but it’s the lesser of two evils. Brock is his enemy, but he’s already turned on Hydra, and with time of the essence, Steve has precious little choice but to trust him.

“Rogers, you can’t just—!”

Steve doesn’t wait for an argument; just turns his back and sprints.

The Serpent’s head alone is enough to blot out the quickly-dawning light up close, eyes milky blind but tracking no less quickly for it. Each scale is half as high as a man, rough and ugly and hard, gleaming an oily emerald. Its mouth, when Steve rounds its body, is grotesquely unhinged at the jaw to accommodate rows and rows of jagged teeth, the outermost as tall as a man and spiraling smaller in concentric circles to the reaches of its gullet, as far as the eye can see. Among its scales glimmers the same golden metal used in shamans’ collars, forged into a chain.

“You have to get the chain off of it!” A younger shaman, Panther Clan by the look of her, struggles against her Guardian in an attempt to join the fray. “The chain! We need to rebuild the _chain_ , damn all the gods!”

Another shaman picks up the call, and then another, and then Guardians are launching themselves at the Serpent, struggling for hand- and foot-holds, searching out weak spots, grappling with golden links thicker around than their arms.

A howl cuts through the calamity, and a huge white wolf comes barreling into the fray, jaws snapping and saliva foaming at its mouth. People scramble to get out of the way, but the wolf ignores them all, sailing into the air to leap at the Serpent, landing on its back and digging in. Going for the chain.

“Barrage!” Shuri shouts.

Steve isn’t the only one who’s realized the wolf is working in their favor, but he is the closest. The Panther shaman is screaming for a flame-barrage—a common enough tactic when dealing with packs of predators, but likely useless against something this large. Or, no, not useless. The wolf— _Bucky_ —needs a distraction to help him in his fight.

Bracing himself, he settles his grip on his sword. “Light my way.” And even through the breaking Shroud, the blaze of his sword catches the Serpent’s attention. He breathes out and runs, steeling himself as hurtles in, other Guardians and shamans alike falling in around him and crashing against the bulk of the Serpent as waves upon a shore.

Steve’s heart beats a desperate tattoo against his chest, his clothes already soaked in sweat as he maneuvers around other bodies, searching for a weak point—any weak point—on an immortal being. The canal of its teeth _move_ , undulating and making the outermost rows surge and grasp at screaming warriors, catching them by their limbs and starting to pull them into its giant maw. Steve yanks someone away and wedges his shield in the hinge of its jaw to stop it closing, allowing those caught to tear free. The shield traps his arm, pinching it painfully between metal and bone, but miraculously, the metal holds. Steve can feel his flesh tear, and he grits his teeth against the pain until the Serpent shrieks, finally levering its jaws open enough for Steve to jerk his arm free. The scream of metal parting rends the air, followed closely by Bucky’s bay of triumph. Steve looks up in time to see the massive chain fall from the Serpent’s neck and joins in the cheer that sweeps the battlefield. The taste of victory is brief—the Shroud needs to be rebuilt and the new chain locked about the Serpent’s neck, and even with their latest triumph the next steps seem insurmountable.

The chain is dragged away by the wolf and a team of shamans, but the battle rages on.The clans are pinned between the dual jaws of the Serpent and the people Hydra.. And then, like a blessing, the darkness begins to creep back in as their shamans begin the first stages of building the new Shroud. As though it can sense the spell, the Serpent wails and redoubles its efforts to get free, another coil breaching the surface of the ice and crushing a dozen people before they can run clear. Steve loses sight of Bucky, but he has no time to worry. He veers away from the main battle to pull others to safety, dragging them to shamans who wait with steady hands and makeshift bandages. One of them grabs Steve’s arm just below the gash there and tries to stop him.

“You need to staunch that before you lose too much—”

“Wanda?”

“ _Steve_?” She’s caked in blood and mud, hair soaking and sleeves rolled to her elbows, but Wanda’s wide eyes stare back at him nonetheless. “You’re alive!” She works while she talks. Despite the shock etched across her features, her hands have no hesitation as they tie a bandage around Steve’s arm.

“I’m hard to kill.” He takes a gulp of water from the flask she offers.

“See that it stays that way.” Wanda ties the final knot before gripping his hand tight. “I don’t like losing my family.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It feels like an eternity, but it can’t be more than an hour or two before the chain is ready again. Bucky works in only his cloak, feet freezing on the ice and snow but uncaring. Part of his body still remembers the wolf, and its paws never suffer from the bitter cold. He’s part of the team that etches the final runes on the chain, following the menders as they re-melt the links and reinforce nicks they’d had to inflict on the chain to break the central spell. Around them the battle rages on—man against Serpent, man against man. It would warm Steve’s heart, maybe, to see how many people have rushed to take care of each other; to stand up against the greater threat. The gold used to make the chain is rare and now used only for ceremonial purposes, and each ounce is considered priceless, yet people have been gathering and dropping off armloads of shaman collars to be melted and re-forged in spell and flame.

“We can hold the chain in place, but the last link needs to be done by hand.” Strange is covered in soot, clothing charred and hair in disarray and _still_ he commands attention. “As soon as it’s in place, the Shroud will settle and that will weigh the Serpent down. Then it’s a matter of finishing the seal here.”

“Are any of us capable of that anymore?” A dark-haired shaman swipes an arm across his forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt there. “It’s impervious to illusion and its natural resistance makes it impossible to kill. We can barely do enough damage that it can _feel._ ”

“What if we don’t need to damage it?”

Bucky’s head snaps up at the sound of that voice. Steve and two other Guardians make their way to the front, slumped with exhaustion and covered in cuts and bruises, but otherwise whole. He’s already finished the rune he was on, so he shoves it into someone else’s hand and starts making his way around the gathering.

Mind racing ahead, Steve continues. “We’re thinking like Hydra—all or nothing. But the chain worked on it when it was even stronger, didn’t it? Why don’t we just bait it until the new one is locked? That’s the tactic that worked to get it off. Attack its head; its eyes. Distract it and keep it on the ground if we can. Locking its jaw open, even for a few minutes, worked last time, and the flame barrages should keep force it to stay low to the ground. With the right weapons this only needs to be a four, perhaps five-man job. Any more of us will be a loss of life.”

Bucky finally rounds on Steve just in time to punch him on the uninjured arm. “You _punk_! And I’m betting that you’re going to be one of those five.”

“Of course.” Steve clenches his jaw in a way that says he’s stopped listening to reason. “I’ve already locked it’s jaw once with Spellbreaker. Whatever you imbued my shield with…it’s stronger than steel and twice as light. Took the pressure of the Serpent’s jaw and held it like it was nothing. There’s no one better to do it besides me.” 

Bucky wanted to argue, but Steve was still speaking: “Besides, you’re going in with the chain, aren’t you?”

Bucky closes his mouth and nods grimly. His wolf form is the only being large enough to hold the chain in his jaws and still maintain a grip on the Serpent—there is no question he’s going. He finds Steve’s hand, lacing their fingers together like they used to. “End of the line?”

Steve leans in and kisses him, hard and fast and desperate. Bucky muffles a moan and kisses back, hand fisted in the short hair at the back of Steve’s head. He’s been waiting for this for _so long._ If only they hadn’t waited until the end of the world.

“I hate to interrupt, but time is of the essence. We don’t know how much longer the temporary Shroud will hold, and it exists only in this area. Everywhere else…” Strange gestures pointedly to where the sun still burns bright less than league away.

“We’re talking about this after. So make sure there’s an after,” Bucky orders. The deep timbre of the wolf already growls in his throat as he paces to the far end of the chain.

Strange turns to Steve briskly. “Pick your other four, and take all the weaponry you’ll need. If this doesn’t work…”

“It will work.” Steve slings the shield over his back again. “Because we don’t have another choice.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The spears they try snap like twigs, and they don’t have time to try it again. One Guardian, a golden god of a man named Thor, manages to swing his warhammer into a tooth so hard that it breaks, and he grabs a chip of it and holds it in one meaty fist to use as an unwieldy dagger. He and Steve do the most damage, dancing in and out close to the Serpent’s eyes as the white Wolf drags the golden chain close and closer. But they still can’t keep it still enough.

“There has to be a weak point,” Steve mutters, wiping his face. But it’s close to the ground, keeping any potential weakness of its stomach out of the way. They’re tried to attack its eyes, but the milkiness had turned out to be from thick lids hard as shells and more supple than leather. It leaves only one place Steve can think of, and he’s loathe to do it.

“Where is the tooth?” He turns to Thor who, like him, is taking a few seconds’ respite while others try to hook the Serpent’s teeth in metal nets to drag it to the ground.

“Still by the ground, just there.” Thor points where it lays abandoned, tall as a spear and thicker than the legs of two men. “What foolishness are you planning?”

“Nothing worse than the insanity of today.” He’s gotten his second wind, the battle-high making him giddy. He grins at Thor, who just nods and grins back, handing over his makeshift weapon.

“Whatever it is, may the gods bless you in it.”

“Gonna need it,” Steve mutters to himself. “Distract it!”

“That’s what we’ve been _trying_ ” Thor hollers back, but he settles his warhammer in his grip and flips it to the wicked piercing side, grinning madly.

Steve has only seconds to lever the abandoned tooth in his arms and run for the Serpent. He knows that Thor’s done something right when the Serpent opens its mouth to roar again. Metal nets settle over the biggest of its teeth and what shamans can be spared attempt to use the same spells that anchor their ice-ships to weigh the nets to the ground. It’s precious little, but it’s also enough time for Steve to leap into the mouth of the beast. The first two rows of teeth are high, and the flesh dense and firm, like walking on moss growing on rocks. But the fourth row has give to it, and it’s as far as he cares go with any hope of getting back out. He draws his sword.

“Light my path.”

The stone comes to life, helping him choose where he needs to strike. He drives the blade in first, cutting his way through flesh, wound slowly filling with red blood and a viscous, yellowish liquid that covers his hands. Wedging his sword between two teeth to keep the light steady, he prays for strength, dredging at the last of his reserves. If this doesn’t work, he has no more ideas. The broken tooth is large and wedge-shaped, and hopefully sharp enough to cut through its owner’s flesh. He steadies it with the side of one foot and breathes deeply, centering it over the cut he’s already made and bracing his hands on the broad, ragged end of the tooth. He pushes down.

The tooth moves.

Not enough. He does it again and it sinks to his waist, just past the point his sword would have paved for him. Now he can use his shield like a hammer, aiming for a ragged gap in the broken edge of the tooth and bringing the shield down so hard that he can feel it reverberate throughout his entire body. This time the Serpent shifts. It can either feel what Steve is doing or the metal nets outside are failing. Either way, he needs to make this fast.

“Once more,” he whispers under his breath. “Give me strength.”

He closes his eyes for a moment before opening then and driving down with all his might. The shield hums in his hands, runes lighting ice-blue as strength flows into him, sinking the tooth farther and farther into soft flesh. The blast of air that comes with the Serpent’s scream this time rings through Steve’s head disorienting and agonizing. He grabs his weapons out of instinct and staggers against rows of teeth, struggling to drag himself free. He makes it, just barely, tumbling into open air and getting entangled in a net. Hands reach out to drag him back as the serpent writhes, slamming its head onto the ice over and over to rid itself of the intrusion.

Fatigue swamps Steve, but even then, he knows it’s still not over. He can feel a weak tug through the Bond: Bucky. He can feel the other man reaching for strength he doesn’t have, probably from a Shroud that doesn’t exist yet. Why he needs it, Steve doesn’t know, but he swore a Bonding Oath: Stand by him in all battles to come. So he takes what he has left and hurls it into the Bond, flooding it with his own strength and adding the memories of the strength Bucky has always shown _him_. He can feel is race down the bond moments before his vision blurs and he shuts the Bond down with a final snap.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The chain won’t close. Another two shamans were supposed to aid Bucky in laying the final spells, but one couldn’t keep their footing and fell, and Bucky and the remaining shaman are not enough. He strains for more power and falls miserably short. Without the Shroud, he’d have to search for an outside source, and that’s time they don’t have. He’s praying for a miracle when it comes.

Energy bursts fast and hard through his veins, spilling into the spell. The bracer he always wears on his arm glows faintly—Steve. Grinning wildly, Bucky pours what he’s given into the chain, struggling with the other shaman to pull the two links together and complete the chant at the same time. It feels like popping a bone back into pace, the thick, wild magic in the air dissipating into golden glitter that rises to meet the forming Shroud as the Serpent’s thrashing slows. Giddy with victory, Bucky changes again and lowers himself, urging the other shaman on and leaping lightly back to land.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The aftermath is slow. The Serpent doesn’t submerge all at once, although its lethargy increases exponentially. They weren’t able to counteract Hydra’s plot completely, and many shamans burned out, though few actually died. There is no way to tell how many Hydra members escaped, and bodies are still being brought in for identification and counting.

There is only one person who matters to Bucky right now, and that’s Steve. He’s not in the field or one of the many stations distributing water and food. He’s not carrying wounded or, worse, bodies, to be taken care of. He’s not with the new council, which temporarily looks to Shaman Strange for guidance.

Bucky finds him in one of the many medical tents, a slim black man and a redhead sitting at his side. Bucky’s heart plummets: This is the hospice area, which those who will die slowly are given what comfort can be had.

“What happened?”

The redhead turns to look at him. “Who are you?”

“I’m… He’s my Guardian.”

“Poison,” the other person says heavily. “I’m Sam; she’s Natasha. We were scouts on the _Triskelion_ with Steve.”

Bucky recognizes the name. “Poison? Which one? I might—”

“It’s from the Serpent,” Natasha says curtly.

Dozens of antidotes and at least as many spells, but none for the Serpent. “How… Why is no one else…?” He looks around as though he’ll be able to identify those in similar predicaments.

“According to my brother, he walked inside the jaws of the beast.”

Everyone turns as a condescending voice interrupts them. The interloper is tall and lanky, dark-haired with lips turned down into a perpetual frown. “Stupid, if you ask me.”

“That is why no one asked you.” The new voice belongs to Shaman Shuri of Panther Clan. Bucky has only met her once, but she is quite memorable. Natasha and Sam rise to greet her properly. “Can you do anything or not, Shaman Loki?”

Loki frowns and holds his hands inches away from Steve’s still form. “It’s not something I’ve ever encountered…”

“That is the _point_ ,” Shuri huffs.

Loki’s glower grows. “I’d need more time than he has. It’s possible I could create an antidote, but it could take months or years, even. I’d give this man a day at most, with the venom pumping through him so quickly.”

“Natasha!” someone calls. Natasha stands and walks forward to hug the newcomer, petting over her hair in a comforting gesture. “Natasha, I just found out. What’s going on?”

“The venom is spreading too fast. There’s no way to come up with an antidote in time.”

The new girl takes this in in silence. Bucky is trying to place her. Her voice…

“What if it doesn’t spread?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Loki snaps. “The heart beats, the blood moves, the venom spreads. That’s the way it works.”

“So we’ll stop his heart.”

“It _will_ stop. It’s called being _dead_.”

“No. Stasis. Like the archives on the old ships.” The girl brushes back Steve’s hair gently. “We could adapt that to something living.”

“Ridiculous.”

Shuri brightens up. “Just because no one has done it, doesn’t mean it cannot be done. One day, you said. With you, me, and Wanda we can do it in half that, even if it is temporary between more stable casting.”

_Wanda_. Bucky freezes in shock. It’s been more than ten years, but…

“Please,” Wanda says softly. “He’s family.”

Bucky is dizzy with relief—that his ideas about the Shroud have actually worked; that Hydra has been routed, or at least are in hiding; that the Serpent is safely chained; that Steve still has hope of living; and now that Wanda…

“I’ll help, too,” he hears himself say. “He’s my Guardian.”

Wanda rises when she hears that, finally turning to face him. “Steve is your—”

Ten years is a long time, but he shrugs off his cape and pulls back his hair, giving Wanda a soft smile. “Hello, little one.”

_“Bucky!”_ Wanda throws herself at him wholeheartedly, tears silently streaming down her face. A decade and Wanda still makes no noise when she cries. “You were dead. Steve was dead. How did you—” She visibly pulls herself together. “Later. As soon as we figure this out, we'll talk. We need to… I don’t think I can take it if I lose one of you now that I’ve found you both.”

“Later,” he agrees. But when he offers her his hand, she clutches it tight and doesn’t let go.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“He looks asleep.”

“He is, in a manner of speaking.” T’Challa looks at Bucky, taking in the furrow of concern between his brows. “I can assure you he is in no pain. And we will take care of him while you find an antidote.”

“I just don’t like leaving him like this.”

“No one wants to leave the one they love.”

“Don’t let anything happen to you,” Bucky murmurs to Steve’s prone form. He has to do it from beyond the shimmering overlay of the stasis veil and Steve probably can’t hear him, but it makes him feel better to say the words. “You owe me another fucking kiss when you wake up.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD THIS IS THE END! Okay, there's an epilogue, but whatever. Again, a million billion thanks to madara-nycteris, who is an amazing artist and should be praised endlessly. In case the picture didn't load, here's the link!: <https://i.imgur.com/PALx5WA.jpg>
> 
> Feel free to ask me stuff on Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/). I ended up with a bunch of worldbuilding and background that didn't belong or fit in the fic, so hit me up if you want boring details and headcanons.
> 
> Go stare in wonder at [@madara-nycteris](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com/), whose attention to detail is nothing short of amazing.


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever thanks once again to my beta [Squeaky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky), who is a saint on top of being a great beta-reader. 
> 
> Never ever forget about [Madara_Nycteris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madara_Nycteris/pseuds/Madara_Nycteris), who did the amazing art this whole story was based on and is featured in the chapter before this.
> 
> And of course to the RBB for organizing the whole thing. I've never done something like this before so there was definitely a huge learning curve, but the community is full of amazing and compassionate people (who mostly don't mind my constant panic attacks). Thanks, guys!

“You have the strongest connection with him. Go on.”

“I’m not convinced this is necessary,” Bucky wavers. Shuri flaps her hands at him impatiently. Behind him, the others watch with avid interest. “Does there have to be an audience?”

“We're here in case something goes wrong. Which it won't," Wanda adds hastily as Bucky scowls at her in alarm.

“This is ridiculous. I’ll do it myself.” But when Loki reaches for the carved stone and glass vial in Bucky’s hands, he dodges away.

“You said it was important. That the Bond would help.”

“Then stop taking forever about it.”

Bucky would rather do this in private. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t work and Steve doesn’t wake up. Or if it does work and Steve reacts badly to Bucky’s presence. If this was Steve, he thinks, the punk wouldn’t even think twice. So Bucky grips his courage with both hands and plunges in.

He finds Steve’s heart, slipping his hand over the other man’s bare chest until he can cup the warming crystal against that steady beat. The potion he holds in his mouth for a moment while he tugs at the Bond, dormant but there, that has kept his hope alive for two years now. Carefully parting Steve’s lips with his own, he feeds the precious mixture to him, free hand cupping the side of Steve’s face so he can feel him swallow. 

Bucky expected it to take days. Hours, maybe, or even minutes at best. Instead, when he pulls away, Steve’s clear blue eyes gaze adoringly up at him. He feels Steve’s hand cover his own as he muffles an overwhelmed sob. The room around them is deathly silent, the perpetual creak of wood the only noise, and Bucky realizes in a distant way that they’ve decided to give them privacy after all.

“You’re late,” Bucky manages. He tips his head down until their foreheads touch, tears sliding down his face to land on Steve’s.

“M’ sorry,” Steve whispers hoarsely. He squeezes reassuringly at Bucky’s hand, still clasped over Steve’s chest.

“We were supposed to talk about it.”

“I know.”

“You _scared_ me, you punk. That wasn’t—wasn’t supposed to be the end of the line,” Bucky chokes out.

“It wasn’t, Buck. I’m here. I love you.”

Bucky feels like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear those three words. He swoops in and captures Steve’s mouth with his, taking the kiss he’d wanted for years—since he was twelve and just finding out what love was, since Steve walked back into his life, since the fated battle against Hydra and the Serpent. He fills his kiss with love and tenderness and hope and all the things he’s ever wanted for Steve and him together, and prays that even a fraction of it gets through. 

By the way Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and the gentle smile curving his lips, it does.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We both love kudos, comments, and questions, so please leave them if you feel so inclined! Even a single word or emoji is treasured and revered.
> 
> Feel free to ask me stuff on Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/). I ended up with a bunch of worldbuilding and background that didn't belong or fit in the fic, so hit me up if you want boring details and headcanons.
> 
> Go stare in wonder at [@madara-nycteris](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com/), whose attention to detail is nothing short of amazing.


End file.
